Cassiopeia
by define-serenity
Summary: [Serendipity AU] Can one crazy night with a complete stranger change your life forever? Does the power to change fate lie within your own hands? Will the choices you make lead you back to the person you're meant to be with? COMPLETE.


**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**characters/pairings:** Sebastian/Blaine (endgame), Sebastian/Adam (midgame), Blaine/Hunter (midgame), Santana(/Brittany), Marley, Sugar, Cooper, Sam, Emma, Ryder, Kurt

**author's** **notes:** Serendipity!AU. you don't have to watch the movie to follow the story, but it helps. title and lyrics taken from _Cassiopeia_ by Sara Bareilles. super special fangirl thanks to **xsaturated** for the beta-read. this was written as a present to all my Seblainers, you guys have all my love and appreciation and i can't say that enough!

* * *

**CASSIOPEIA;;**

* * *

It seems hard to believe, but this story starts with a pair of gloves. One stray pair of black cashmere gloves, found by a department store clerk in a pile of beige sweaters, quickly redirected to the main floor for sale.

They may have seemed like ordinary gloves, like there are white gloves or gray gloves or any kind of color you might imagine, fingerless gloves, leather gloves, dress gloves, driving gloves. But these gloves, they're about to bring together two people whose destinies lie intertwined like vines of ivy reaching for the sun.

New York City lies blanketed under a thick layer of snow, steam rising along the pavement reminiscent of hot mugs of coffee cupped between two greedy hands, Christmas lights constellated in random patterns along every street.

.

_Come in close now it's time to tell the story_

_Long ago, and so many years before we_

_Ever were, ever dreamed we even could be_

.

It's three days before Christmas and he should know better by now. Sebastian sighs, navigating a war field of last-minute shoppers, he among them, trudging his way through crowds made up of angry housewives and husbands who forgot Christmas was around the corner, children crying because their parents dragged them out here while they could be out playing in the snow. Right now he'd give about anything to still be a kid, then he'd be spared Christmas shopping altogether.

But he marches on, weaves easily through the customers at Bloomingdale's, having set his eyes on a pair of gloves that would make Santana very happy.

He reaches out and grabs them off the rack, already scanning the corners of the store for the cash register when there's a sudden tug on his hand. He turns to see he's only holding one of the gloves, the other pulled in the opposite direction by another customer.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the customer says once he realizes they're both trying to get their hands on the same pair, and turns around.

"Damn." He blinks, taken by surprise by the two bright hazel eyes staring up at him. "You go ahead if you want them."

He won't become one of those last-minute shoppers who will tackle someone to the floor to get an item, nor does he wish to fall victim to one of them. Then again, the dashing boy in front of him doesn't seem the type.

"Please, no," the boy laughs, presumably at the comical situation they've gotten themselves into, the cadence of his voice warm, like hot chocolate on a cold winter night, or a bowl of soup after a long day of work. "It's probably the last pair."

His eyes narrow on the boy's face, but he doesn't detect a hint of humor. On second glance he's really rather attractive, black hair gelled down like he's some star from an old black-and-white movie wandered straight out of celluloid, his stature short but solid, the loosened scarf around his neck revealing a red bowtie sitting snug inside the collar of his shirt.

"Listen, you take them," he says. "I don't need them."

"No, you saw them first."

"I insist," he presses, and replaces the gloves on the rack.

An elderly man reaches between them and goes straight for the gloves.

"Excuse me, sir," he protests, "but those are ours."

"Yeah." The boy laughs. "We've put a lot of thought into them."

The old man scoffs. "Then why are they hanging here?"

"We were admiring them," the boy says, adding, "They're a gift for–my boyfriend," just as he's drawled out, "_My girlfriend_," at the exact same time.

"His girlfriend," the boy corrects, while he corrects with, "_His boyfriend_."

The boy giggles and he laughs, a reaction not many people manage to draw from him, let alone a random stranger in the middle of a department store. Things like this only happen in cheesy romantic movies, not in real life.

"They're gloves for two different people," the old man deadpans.

"It's difficult to explain?" the boy's tone lilts into a question. "You see, he is currently my boyfriend–"

The boy's eyes beg for a help line, but he's at a loss for words. Maybe if they'd both said boyfriend they could've salvaged this with a ménage à trois, but he's currently boyfriend-less, and while Santana's definitely not his girlfriend he's gotten himself into the exact mess he promised to stay out of. So instead of coming up with something clever, he adds, "–but in eighteen months–"

The boy frowns quizzically, but doesn't release his eyes, "–after the surgery–"

"_He_," he prompts.

"_She_–" the boy corrects, and smiles wide. "–will be his girlfriend."

He nods, grinning, "My girlfriend."

He has no clue what alternate universe he's stumbled into, maybe one of those slapstick talkies, but somewhere during their exchange the boy's eyes have managed to bewitch him–he can't stop returning to those eyes over and over again, like a magnet attracted to its polar opposite.

The old man stares between them, little more idea of what happened than he does. "That didn't work out, did it?"

The old man puffs out a breath and leaves.

He grabs the gloves off the rack again before anyone else can get their hands on them, and gives them to the boy, who smiles a polite, "Thanks."

He grins, enchanted by the boyish smile directed his way. "It was a team effort."

"Would you–like to get some coffee?" the boy asks, adding a hasty, "As a thank you."

.

Blaine has never met a boy quite like this before, who's not only easy on the eyes but grants the widest smile he's ever seen, something boyish underneath a more confident exterior, complemented by beautiful green eyes that haven't focused on anything but him since they met at the department store. His auburn hair lies swept up in a smooth wave, thick black-rimmed glasses on his nose, his sweater a seemingly blue old thing that went out of style years ago, but looks warm and snug.

"This is really good," the boy says, his spoon straw drawing circles in his ice cream coffee, scooping up the whipped cream. As much as the boy's eyes haven't left him, he has to admit he has a hard time tearing his away too, especially when he seems to be enjoying this kind of coffee for the first time.

"You have to let me get the check," he says. "It's the least I can do."

"You're right," the boy grins, "Because now I have to go out and find a new present."

"You can still have the gloves," he blurts out. "I'd feel bad if–"

The boy shakes his head. "You won't treat if I take the gloves."

He hides a smile behind his drink while a pleasant shudder runs through him–he likes this boy, maybe more than he should, but he's not doing anything wrong. He wanted to thank his nameless stranger for helping him out at the store, and he does feel bad for snatching his present from him. It's rare to be met with kindness when you're shopping so close to Christmas.

"How'd you find this place?" the boy asks, swallowing down another spoonful of ice cream.

"I liked the name. Serendipity." He vividly recalls the first time he'd laid eyes on the place; he'd been searching for a place to stay in New York, and after one disappointment after the other he'd turned to a roommate finders service, located directly next to the quaint coffee shop. It was out of his way, so he only came here on special occasions, and this definitely qualifies.

"It's one of my favorite words," he adds.

The boy licks some ice cream from a corner of his mouth, tongue curling to reach the spot. "Why?" he asks, and he has to blink several times before the question registers.

"It's a nice sound for what it means," he says, grateful his distraction doesn't sound through. "_A fortunate accident_." He shakes his head. "But I don't believe in accidents. I believe fate's behind everything."

"Oh, you do?" A smile tugs at the same corner of the boy's mouth, and it's wholly distracting all over again. "So everything is predestined," the boy says, digging his straw up and down. "We don't have a choice."

"I believe we make our own decisions." He shrugs, embarrassed suddenly. This wouldn't be the first time someone points out his beliefs are a teenage fallacy best forgotten, but he can't help what he believes. "Fate just sends us little signals and it's how we interpret them that decides whether or not we're happy."

The straw stops moving, the boy staring at the table pensively, "Hmm."

"What?"

"Nothing." The boy snaps to. "You're right. I mean, here I am, trying to find a Christmas present, and in a perfect moment of serendipiosity or serendipaciousness I run into a handsome guy looking for the same present for his boyfriend."

He chuckles, utterly charmed by the flow and ease of the conversation.

"You have a boyfriend, right?" the boy reiterates, as if he's trying to make sure he's still not allowed to cross any boundaries. It's insane how closely he's tiptoeing along those boundaries himself.

He tilts his head and nods, "Yeah, I do," he says, keeping their eyes locked. This is not a point of embarrassment for him, he's having fun with another guy, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love Eli or that he'll linger on this moment beyond tonight. Besides, he did hear something about a girlfriend. "And you have the glove lady."

"Yeah, she's not my girlfriend."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I don't feel comfortable calling her _my hag_ in front of elderly people."

He smiles, oddly unsurprised that his stranger admits to being gay–he's been flirting non-stop.

Their ice cream coffees are finished all too soon despite both of them trying to prolong their time together, but there's no more reason for them to stay much longer. They shrug into their coats and make their way up front.

"What do you want for Christmas?" he asks. It's unsettling how much he dreads their final goodbyes.

The boy holds the door open for him. "A new memory card for my camera," he answers. "I like going up to the Empire State and take pictures."

He's tempted to dig deeper into the conversation, ask why he goes up the Empire State Building of all places, whether photography is a hobby or a future career he's envisioned, he wants to hear the boy's entire life story if it means learning more about him and staving off this goodbye they're walking towards. But it's late, and he should get going, maybe order some take-out once Eli comes home too.

"So, you're off to see your boyfriend?" the boy asks, his hands sinking inside his pockets once they hit the cold winter air.

"No, he's out doing what you're doing."

"Getting a crush on someone else's boyfriend?"

The laugh that bubbles to the surface comes out nervous and awkward, but he's shocked by the warmth that spreads in his chest in the wake of the confession. It feels nice to be wanted, even if it's by someone he barely knows and even if it's only for tonight–he believes in chance encounters and the kindness of strangers, but it's been a long time since he's come across either.

"I'm sorry," the boy apologizes, followed by an almost shy smile. "I just had a great time."

"Me too."

"Can I get your phone number?" the boy asks. "You know," another shy smile, "Just in case?"

His eyes narrow on the boy's face. "In case of what?" he asks, hailing the first cab in sight.

"In case of... life." The boy shrugs, waiting beside him on the pavement. "How else would I find you again?"

And as tempting as it sounds to have another day like this, to talk and flirt with an ease he's never experienced before, he has a boyfriend who loves him, who's been his guiding light for the past six months and he won't throw that all overboard for a guy he met a few hours ago. As much as he believes in fate and following his heart, thinking like that can lead to stupid decisions as well. He's with Eli, and he won't ruin that.

"If we're meant to meet again, we will." He opens the cab door. "It's just–" He shrugs, "not the right time for us now."

"Come on," the boy insists, disbelief and a hint of desperation riddled in his eyes. "I don't even know your name." He takes a step closer. "I'm Sebastian."

He smiles fondly, his heart beating faster at their sudden proximity. He rises on his toes and presses a chaste kiss to Sebastian's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Sebastian," he says, meeting his green eyes for the last time, lips tingling from an innocent kiss. "And thank you."

Sebastian sighs, but accepts this is the way it has to be. "Merry Christmas."

.

Sebastian has no idea what's come over him, he spaced out into another dimension for a few hours where boys who wear bowties were incredibly attractive and not afraid to be flirted with.

The world seems like he's been away from it for years, even though it also feels like a few hours passed by in seconds. He regrets walking away, he should have pushed that little bit harder to get a name or a phone number, to make the boy see past fate and signals to make sure he saw what was standing right in front of him: something new and exciting neither of them have felt before.

It wasn't fair to flirt so much knowing the other boy had a boyfriend he clearly cared about, but what he felt was strong enough to betray that part of himself. He tends to stick to single boys, but this one, this one was special.

Of course none of it mattered anymore, he was gone, along with his charming smile and keen fashion sense, back to his life, wherever or whatever that was. And he should do the same. He briefly considers calling Santana and inviting her out for a drink, but that would result in her asking about her present, which he'd neglected buying.

He decides to put it out of his mind. He's not one to dwell on these things. He descends into the subway, the cold air gathering around him in the narrow staircase and he reaches up for his scarf–

Only he's not wearing a scarf anymore.

He throws his head back and sighs; he must've forgotten it at the coffee shop, too busy staring at a cute boy to get dressed properly. He trots back up the steps, heading down the street again.

This has been the most surreal day of his life: he went shopping by himself during the Christmas craze and only managed to find a present for Santana, which he then offered to a complete stranger because he was cute, _hot_, and who bought him the best coffee he's ever had. All that mixed with smiles and easy conversation and–oh God, he has it bad, and that's not like him at all.

He pushes through the door of the coffee shop, a small bell ringing overhead, and he lifts his eyes to see his day get even more surreal–because there's the boy, standing by the table they were occupying no half hour ago, blinking at him in an equal measure of surprise, clinging to the shopping bag he'd forgotten too. And his scarf.

His heart stutters in his chest, this perfect moment of serendipity all the proof he needs that he's dreaming somehow–stuff like this doesn't happen to real people, he doesn't feel like this about people. And yet here they stand. How fortunately accidental.

He takes a few steps closer, little distance left between them. He's not cold anymore. "Hey."

"Hey," the boy breathes.

The boy reaches his scarf up tentatively, while he ducks a lower to let him drape it around his neck.

"I'm Blaine," the boy says, finally giving up on any apprehension he was still holding onto.

"It's nice to meet you, Blaine," he says, and lets moments pass to bathe in the quiet comfort between them. "Let's go do something."

There's another pause, but no hesitation when Blaine finally stutters, "S-Sure. What do you wanna do?"

He shrugs, prepared to withstand about anything at this point. "I don't care."

"Alright." Blaine beams. "Let's go."

Half an hour later he's strapping on a pair of skates down in Central Park, waiting for Blaine to tie his laces so they can join a couple dozen of other New Yorkers in a merry go round on the ice rink. He helps Blaine up and they stagger towards the ice, releasing hands once they find their footing.

"Of all the things you could do in New York you decide to go ice skating," he says, only mildly mocking.

"It's three days before Christmas," Blaine giggles, _and yes_, he'll definitely have to get him to giggle more. "Cut me some slack."

They join the flow of the crowd going around the rink.

"You seem to have the hang of this," Blaine says.

He skates a quick circle around Blaine. "You might say I'm a natural, even."

"So you're athletic."

He can't tell if it's a question or a statement, but he decides that it doesn't matter–they talked easy before and there's no reason they can't keep going. Besides, he wants to know more about Blaine too. "I played lacrosse in high school," he says. "And I run in the mornings to stay in shape."

"On a treadmill?"

He scoffs. "I'm too young for a treadmill."

"You're, what?" Blaine asks, keeping up with him effortlessly. "A freshman?"

He chuckles, tempted to ask if he strikes Blaine as freshman, but he can tell when someone's having a go at him. "Please tell me you're not visiting for a week or marrying someone to get a green card," he says, almost ashamed over his desperation to learn more about this guy. "Or on parole."

Blaine giggles again. "None of the above. You?"

"I'm a proud US citizen." He points at Blaine. "And as far as anyone's concerned I have no criminal record."

Their conversation continues along those same lines, playful questions back and forth without ever getting too serious. Blaine stays on the periphery of things, asking him about his favorite book, his favorite food, while being oddly specific when he asks about his favorite quote or favorite language.

By the time the last people leave the rink, well past midnight, his feet have gone numb in his skates and he wishes he'd brought a hat to keep his ears warm. But Blaine's still going strong and he feels high on the excitement of meeting a total stranger and immediately hitting it off.

"Okay, hmm," Blaine muses, skating bigger and smaller circles around him. "Favorite movie."

"_The Goonies_."

"Get out."

"I'm serious." He laughs. "It doesn't get old."

Blaine falls silent for a few seconds. "Favorite New York moment."

He comes to a halt and thinks about it; he loves living in this city, having Santana and Nick and Jeff close, he has his favorite bars and bookstores, knows where to go for the best coffee, or rather, _knew_ where to go. But none of that has ever compared to this–he thought this stuff happened in fiction only, meeting a guy and feeling something for him right away, basking in his presence without even knowing his last name.

"This one's climbing the charts."

Blaine stops a few feet away, one of his arms dangling at his side, "You're flirting with me."

He chuckles. "You're getting that, huh?" he says, closing the distance between them, attempting to warm his hands by putting them in his pockets. A snowflake dwindles down and settles in Blaine's hair, soon followed by one that brushes the tip of his nose–Blaine smiles wide and his eyes sparkle with it, and for some reason it warms him from the inside. "Anything else you'd like to know about me?"

Blaine pushes his lips out in contemplation, a flirty glint in his eyes. "Favorite sexual position?"

He loses his footing. One second he's smiling down at Blaine, the next his feet are gone from under him and he lands hard on his side with no idea what happened or how.

"Oh!" Blaine exclaims and dives down to the ground. "Yeah, that's my favorite too."

A giggle escapes him entirely involuntarily. "What?"

"I'm a terrible joker," Blaine grimaces. "At least you know that about me."

He gets up with Blaine's help, his cheeks burning–how is this guy making him into such a lovesick idiot?

"You okay?" Blaine asks, keeping him steady with a hand around his arm.

"Yeah," he says, but has to amend with an immediate, "No," when he stretches out his arm and a sharp pain stabs through his elbow.

They sit down at the edge of the ice rink where they left their jackets, both straddling the bench to face each other. "Let me see," Blaine says and takes hold of his arm, carefully peeling back his sweater to expose his elbow. Blaine massages at his skin and he winces, his arm painful to the touch. "Yeah, that's gonna bruise."

"Not as badly as my ego."

"I think you'll live." Blaine strokes a hand down the length of his arm, looking closely at the spots peppered across his skin. He has no idea what could possibly be so interesting about his freckles to warrant this much staring, but he lets Blaine take his time, especially if it means having him so close that he catches the distinct raspberry scent of his hair gel.

"Your freckles map out Cassiopeia," Blaine says.

"That is the weirdest pick-up line I've ever heard."

"I'm serious." Blaine acts insulted. "I'll show you." Blaine unearths a pen from his jacket and uncaps it, applying it beneath one of his freckles. "Once upon a time in Ethiopia there was this Queen named Cassiopeia, who thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. And of course everyone was offended by her relentless vanity."

He smiles, "Of course."

Blaine connects one freckle to another, and draws another line up until he reaches a third.

"And I don't remember what she did or who she offended, but Poseidon punished her by putting her upside down on her throne in the heavens, stuck there for all eternity." He draws one final line down to another freckle and pulls back to admire his work. "Now she's just a constellation in the sky, a bunch of freckles in the shape of a throne."

He stares down at his arm, a constellation smattered over his skin.

Blaine looks up at him, a sudden flush in his cheeks.

"So she made one tragic mistake–"

"–_we think_," Blaine laughs.

"And she paid for eternity."

He must be dreaming; Blaine's flawless if not slightly ridiculous and naive maybe, and he thought boys like him had gone into extinction long ago. But Blaine's right there smiling at him, they've been indulging each other all night trying to postpone an inevitable goodbye, and the part of him that doesn't believe in fairytales gets ignored in favor of teenage dreaming.

There's something between them right there, they both know it as they stare into each other's eyes and don't feel the need to say anything. And he wants more of it.

"Give me your number," he says.

.

He can't believe he's doing this. Of all the things this day could've become Blaine never would've guessed he'd end up scribbling down his name and phone number for a boy he met a few hours before. Sebastian had begged him for ten minutes straight as they made their way out of the park, down the street–somewhere in all of it he'd forgotten he actually meant to raise a cab, because Sebastian kept circling around him, making quips about letting fate take its proper course.

They ended up in front of the Waldorf Astoria and he'd finally caved–it was only his name and number after all, and he was under no obligation to acquiesce any of Sebastian's wishes beyond tonight. Sebastian had turned around and offered his back.

"Make it legible," Sebastian says, resisting the urge to bounce on his feet.

"Alright." He folds the paper in half and waits for Sebastian to turn around, while apprehension sets in his bones. What would Eli think if he found out some strange boy was calling him? He could never lie to Eli, he loves him too much for that, but there's a connection between him and Sebastian too strong to ignore.

He doesn't see the harm in handing Sebastian his phone number, maybe they could be friends. He'd like them to be friends, even if he realizes all too well Sebastian means for them to become something more. He hands over the piece of paper, Sebastian's thumb and index finger curling around the other end of it.

"There's no going back, killer," Sebastian says, both of them holding on to their ends of the paper.

It's a leap of faith, he decides, he'll never forget this night and he'd have a hard time trying, and whether or not they can be friends in the end he'd like to find out. He takes a deep breath and starts releasing his end, but a truck rushes by fast and dangerously close to the curb, plucking his information away in a whirlwind of snow and trash.

"What the fuck?!" Sebastian calls, and twirls around a few times in search of the missing paper, but it's gone, scooped up, disappeared out of sight. "That wasn't a sign," Sebastian says pointedly, "That was New York. Please, write it down again."

He shakes his head, "Fate's telling us to back off," and takes off down the street.

"Then why did we meet?" Sebastian hurries after him. "What if it's all in our hands right now?"

He has very few answers to Sebastian's questions, and even less reasons to walk away. He believes everything happens for a reason, that disappointment and loss are balanced by personal victories and happiness, but maybe everyone else had been right instead: his beliefs were childish.

He's eighteen years old, he's been in New York for a meager three months with a boy he met before the summer. He doesn't even have a proper place to live, he and Eli are staying with some fancy musical theatre student who signed his place up for the roommate finders service. It was temporary until they found their own place, but he didn't have anything figured out yet. How did Sebastian expect him to have any answers at all?

This entire night has been a dream, a fantasy that spoke to the romantic in him, but what is he really doing?

"What if we walk away, no names, no phone numbers?" Sebastian asks, clearly a lot more comfortable being spontaneous than he is. "You think fate's going to deliver your information to my doorstep?"

His heart swells involuntarily–he wants to be that boy again, the one who took chances for love, the one who was fearless in the face of something new and exciting, jumped on furniture and sung his love for the entire world to hear. But he's braved rejection one too many times to fall into anything blindly. Eli was safe, loving and kind, and dependable. And that's what he needs right now.

_Right now_, the words echo through his mind. What if there's a better time for him and Sebastian?

"Why not?" He unearths a five-dollar bill from his pocket along with the pen he'd used to draw on Sebastian's arm, holding them out before he has the chance to change his mind. "Write down your name and phone number."

Sebastian eyes him suspiciously, but does as he's told. "You are the strangest guy I've ever met." He scribbles down his name and phone number, and hands both items back.

He runs across the street towards a newspaper vendor and buys some gum, giving away the money he had Sebastian sign.

Sebastian throws his arms up. "What the hell was that?"

"When that five-dollar bill makes its way back into my hands I'll be able to contact you," he says, handing Sebastian everything he can right now. They can't be more than this, not here, not now, not yet. He has too much to learn about himself and he doubts he can do that with a guy like Sebastian.

"And what about me? Shouldn't you send something out in the universe for me to find?"

"You're right," he says, and digs around his pockets. He pulls out the copy of _Love In The Time of Cholera_ he was reading for school, but he could stand to part with it for destiny's sake. "You see this book? When I get home I'll write down my name and phone number and I'll sell it to a used book store."

"You're not going to tell me which one, are you?"

"No." He smiles. "Because now you have to enter every bookstore you walk past to look for it."

"This is wrong." Sebastian shakes his head, his eyes turning deadly serious. "You don't have the most incredible night of your life with a perfect stranger and leave it up to chance."

"I have a boyfriend, Sebastian."

Sebastian sighs. "So you're just letting me off easy," he says, and the disappointment settles starkly beneath his skin. He's faithful to Eli and he has no intention of changing that, but he's never met someone like Sebastian, so open and closed at the same time, a giddy schoolboy but a slightly too serious man in the making–he wants to know more about him, that's what this whole night has been about, postponing the inevitable, learning more about the stranger who'd stumbled into his life.

Maybe that was a mistake, maybe they should have said their goodbyes at the coffee shop the second time, but when Sebastian had showed up he was overwhelmed–it felt more than another moment in a string of coincidental ones and for a few hours he'd decided to forget that he had other obligations. Eli wouldn't be home, and no one else would miss him tonight.

Had he been selfish? Had he strung Sebastian along?

He lives for that hope, that first temptation of new love, love that lasts, he's too young to remain jaded by the heartbreak he suffered at the hands of one single boy.

Would he be a complete fool to hang that hope on Sebastian?

"Come with me," he blurts out, and heads inside the Waldorf without thinking, up the steps of the great entry hall, which shines bright and gold, decorated with dozens of Christmas trees for the holiday season.

"Are we getting a room?" Sebastian jokes behind him.

He heads straight for the elevators, his heart drumming loud, and calls for an elevator on each side of the entry hall. It's a long shot, but it's a leap of faith, and if there's anything that could convince him to throw it all away, to surrender to destiny and start something with Sebastian hours after meeting him, it's a sign from a higher power.

Two elevators arrive on opposite sides of the hallway. He leads Sebastian into one of them, instructing him with a stern, "Stay here. I'll take the other one." He tracks back towards the other elevator, holding the doors open. "If we both randomly pick the same floor we're meant to be together now."

Sebastian's eyes widen. "You're insane."

He laughs, giddy with schoolboy fantasy. "You don't have to understand, you just have to have faith."

"Faith in what?"

He grabs one of the cashmere gloves he bought earlier today and tosses the shopping back with the other glove across the hall, right into Sebastian's waiting hands. "Destiny," he says, right before the elevator doors close and Sebastian disappears out of sight.

He stares at the vermeil elevator buttons next to the doors and presses one blindly, twenty-three, his stomach curling around an excitement he hasn't felt since the first kiss he shared with Eli. His grip tightens around the glove in his hand while he tries to drive away any thoughts of Eli–he'd do right by him, he'd never cheat on anyone, but if fate sends him this one signal, it'll be over between them.

Will it though? Is he brave enough to end a steady relationship to start one with Sebastian without knowing him better first? Is faith enough?

The doors open to the twenty-third floor much sooner than he expected, empty but as equally inviting as the downstairs lobby had been. He steps out of the elevator and looks around. No Sebastian yet.

He'd gotten lucky though, no one else had called on the elevator he took, and it's perfectly possible that Sebastian would take longer to get there.

And so he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

At some point he sits down on the floor and stares down at the lonely glove, wondering if meeting Sebastian was such a fortunate accident after all. Sebastian obviously liked him and he felt the same way, but they didn't know a thing about each other. Sure, he knew Sebastian had a close friend called Santana, but he had _a boyfriend_. A boyfriend who's probably in bed by now, waiting for him to come home.

He sighs. He's such an idiot. Sebastian isn't coming, he probably got off the elevator first chance he got and bolted, finally having realized he's not worth all the trouble–who wants a schoolboy with dreams bigger than he can carry?

He gets up and calls another elevator, pushing the button for the ground floor the moment he steps in.

It's not the end of the world, it was a pipe dream to begin with, and romances like this only exist in books and movies and in people's imagination.

Destiny isn't all it's cracked up to be.

He steps out into the street and hails a cab, not much to show for a full day of Christmas shopping besides a new bowtie, a pair of socks, and one half of a pair of cashmere gloves.

For all its Christmas glamor, New York City had never felt more cold.

.

_Such a shame nowhere near even a near miss_

_Light Years away from the hope of being sun-kissed_

_Anchored home in her interstellar sea but_

_Poor lonely Cassiopeia_

.

Seven years pass and the gloves are forgotten.

Well, for the most part.

Sebastian's half ends up somewhere in the back of a closet, still tucked inside the Bloomingdale's shopping bag where it sits nestled against the receipt, buried under knitted sweaters he never wore, textbooks he couldn't part with, old photographs and lacrosse trophies.

Blaine's endures a move or two, from Brooklyn to the Village to the student dorms at NYU, all the way to San Francisco. His eyes still catch on the lonely glove every time he happens upon it, but for the most part it lies dormant in a corner of a bottom drawer, an occasional reminder of dreams he grew out of.

Life goes on, things change, seven years much too long to dwell on the past.

Or is it?

.

_All alone in a corner of the night sky_

_Spiral bones of a supernova starlight_

_Fell in love with another burning bright_

.

Santana stands glowing at the head of the table, shining magnificent in her bright red dress. His parents and future in-laws fill up the other chairs and everyone's in stitches over the speech his best friend prepared.

"Alright, alright." Santana tries to calm everyone down. "I take my duty as the best man very seriously. I put a guard dog on the rings." She winks at Brittany, sitting to her left, referring to their schnauzer Cherry, who is by no definition of any kind _a guard dog_. "I ordered strippers last month." She points at him. "And I've been making sure this one doesn't board a plane right the hell out of here."

Sebastian chuckles. He's not sure what he ever did to deserve Santana, but he guesses that in some previous life he must've done something incredibly right. Everyone should have a best friend like her, equal parts loving, caring and judgmental–Santana complemented him in a lot of ways.

"They say that once in your lifetime someone comes along who you're absolutely meant to be with. Everything feels great, stars are aligned, body and soul are in balance."

Santana takes a deep breath.

"For Sebastian that person was me."

The entire table erupts into laughter and his jaws start aching, eyes tearing up. Two fingers curl into his hair and he reaches underneath the table for the body next to him.

"I have watched Sebastian go out with guy after guy but he always came crawling back to me," Santana continues. "And let me tell you, it was frickin' embarrassing."

"You loved it!" he laughs, happy that Santana chooses to omit certain details, like how he usually did sleep with those guys at least once before they disappeared from his life.

"But then one night he shows up on my doorstep and things were different. His adolescent dreams of becoming a freelance photographer were behind him."

His father points at him, "Thank God for that."

"He hardly even responded to the playful yet tormenting flicks of my finger against the soft part of his skull as he studied for finals."

"Christ," laughter sounds next to him.

"And that is because he had found him. The man he was meant to be with. And if someone's qualified to know when he met his soulmate it would be me," Santana says. "His first wife."

He laughs. He supposes Santana could be considered his wife in more ways than one–safe for having sex they've slept in the same bed together more than once, they cooked each other dinner and went partying together, shared a flat for about a year during college because Santana couldn't cover the rent on her place. For better or worse, he's stuck with Santana.

"He's smart, he's funny, he's handsome," Santana sums up, describing his future-to-be to a tee. "In short he's the kind of guy a girl like me would go straight for."

Brittany shakes her head lovingly, replacing Santana's champagne with a glass of water.

"So, it is with as much sadness as it is with joy, that I raise my glass to the future Mr Sebastian Smythe." Everyone around the table raises their glass. "If I had to lose Sebastian to anyone, I can't imagine a more perfect guy than Adam."

He turns his head and looks at Adam, beaming; Adam's cheeks are a rosy red from the champagne, his eyes swimming. He leans in and presses his mouth to Adam's, nipping at his lips a few times before pulling back, Adam bumping his nose to his.

"You think we'll ever be as romantic as her and Brittany?" Adam asks and kisses his cheek, watching Santana cuddle up to Brittany.

"Oh, so now I'm not romantic enough for you," he says, settling against Adam's body.

"It's just I've never seen them fight."

"Hmm." He takes a sip from his champagne. "Must be a bitch on their sex life."

Adam swats at his arm but doesn't go into their usual discussion–they do fight, about everything from their shitty plumbing to his hours at work, about his strange fascination with old bookstores and Adam's need to see every single Broadway play he possibly can, about his eyes catching on men with the wrong faces and his unwillingness to talk about it, and his fiancé's need to control every aspect of his life.

They always make up, one or both of them will eventually make a concession or apologize and everything will be okay until their next fight. It's the way they were, and it kept things fresh, kept them both on their toes and made sure they didn't lose sight of each other.

The night goes on much the same way, Santana drinks too much champagne and Brittany keeps having to rein her in, Adam and his father talk about how they could afford a much nicer apartment in the Village if only Sebastian learned to part with his loft, and he talks architecture with his mother-in-law.

After dinner, their parents insist on having drinks at the hotel, but he'd already told Adam he needed to review some computer models for his presentation tomorrow–he'd tried to hand over as much work as he could the week before the wedding, but he'd been working on the Dreisler account for months, and he refused to trust anyone else with it.

"I'm sorry, but we gotta go, Britt has to be up early," Santana says while Brittany hails a cab. "Adam, baby," –she grabs Adam's face and squishes it– "it's not too late to back out."

Adam laughs and hugs Santana. "I think I'll manage."

He kisses Santana on the cheek, and after watching Brittany manhandle her girlfriend into the back of the cab he turns to say goodbye to everyone. There are more than a few complaints, which probably means they should all head home and stay away from more alcohol. "I have a crazy day tomorrow," he says, hugging his mom.

His parents head inside, with Adam's parents close behind.

Adam throws his arms around his neck. "You better be up later."

"Yeah?" His hands slide down to Adam's waist. "Why's that?"

"Because I'm going to come home, and get undressed," Adam smiles, "climb into bed, and pretend like we just got over a terrible fight."

He captures Adam's lips in a kiss, heat racing down his spine, titillated by his fiancé's words. "Can't wait," he murmurs, pushing another kiss to Adam's lips, and reluctantly lets go. Adam tracks backwards towards the entrance of the hotel, and blows him a kiss before he disappears inside.

He releases the breath he wasn't aware he was holding, the Waldorf Astoria looming over him impressive and intimidating, and his heart aches around a seven year old memory. It's stupid, but he still thinks about it, that winter night three days before Christmas, a boy with hazel eyes and raven hair, ripped away by the cruel hand of fate. Or maybe it'd been Blaine's impatience. Because he'd done exactly what Blaine wanted, picked a random floor in the hope that fate would bring them back together, but when he got to the twenty-third floor after an insane amount of stops along the way thanks to a stubborn toddler, there was no one waiting for him. He'd searched a few other floors, called out his name, but it was too late. No Blaine.

He walks home, it isn't that far, and steps into the footprints of his past, his present, and his future–New York hasn't changed, he still loves it as much as when his parents first moved him here, he loves the vibrancy and the character, the people and the stores, the street vendors.

He passes a vendor selling second-hand books and trips up–seven years is a long time to get over someone, one carefree night in a torrent of hectic ones, but that one night shines inside his memory like a beacon, a star about to supernova. His eyes scan the titles on the table and drop to one in particular: _Love In The Time of Cholera_.

For one single moment he hesitates, stopped by the spark of hope that collides through him, extinguished every single time. He traces the outlines of the cover with his index finger, curls it around and opens the book, checking the blank and title pages for handwriting.

But the pages are empty.

_No Blaine._

.

The final bell rings, most of his students out of their chairs before he's even registered the sound. "Guys, remember the deadline for your drafts is on Monday!" Blaine tries to get his voice to reach above the murmur of voices and footsteps hurrying out of the room, hoping to get at least some of his students to pay attention. "Those that don't send in a draft will miss out on any initial feedback!"

He packs his things together, notes and textbooks and the Teacher of the Year coffee mug he'll deposit in the teacher's lounge on his way out.

Only one person has stayed behind, Marley Rose, one of his best and brightest, and even though she's shy she's one of those rare examples of students who assert why he became a teacher. Which is probably why it's so hard to see her standing alone in his classroom now, shuffling her feet, fully aware her next report card won't be as spectacular as previous semesters.

"Marley? Anything you wanna talk about?" he asks, having learned it takes a lot of prompting to get Marley out of her shell.

"I know my grades are slipping." Marley casts down her eyes and picks at the broken spine of one of her textbooks. "I've been really distracted and–"

"Can you talk to anyone about it?" he asks. "Your mom? The guidance counselor?"

Marley shakes her head, her mouth making that signature quirk. "My mom wouldn't understand," Marley says, eyes filling up with tears.

He navigates Marley behind a desk and sits down opposite her. Normally the school counselor guides the students through any problems at home or in their personal lives, but for some reason Marley only ever opens up to him.

"It's Jake," Marley cries. "He broke up with me. And I let him walk away."

"Break-ups are never easy, Marley." He hates serving his students up with platitudes, but this one works–the pain of a first heartbreak disillusions, the world falling apart and no one cares enough to help you through it. There's nothing anyone can say that takes away the pain and mends a broken heart. "But I promise you it'll get better."

"I don't want to be broken up." Marley stares up at him with big shiny eyes and she looks so young, so fragile, like a porcelain doll that would break if he held her too tight. "I want to be with Jake. But he won't talk to me."

"Maybe you both need some space to figure things out."

"I can't breathe without him, Mr Anderson." Tears run down Marley's cheeks. "He's my soulmate."

He takes hold of Marley's hand, his heart aching for this young girl who has so much more to see, so much more to feel, so much more to experience beyond this, and he wishes he could make it all better. "Soulmate is a dangerous word to use, Marley," he says, recognizing himself in Marley's bright eyes. "It implies there's some magical element that we have no control over, like fate or destiny."

"Holding onto beliefs like that stops us from doing the real work," he says. "I know it hurts right now, but there are a lot of people you could be happy with."

Marley sniffles. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yeah, I really do." He nods, giving her hand a squeeze, reaching out to wipe at a stray tear on her cheek. "You're sixteen. Your first love is rarely your only love."

For the first time in a long time he leaves school with a pit in his stomach. He tries not to take his worries home with him, he still has enough work to get through after he cooks dinner, but on occasion there's a student who gets under his skin, that makes him care so much he loses sleep over helping them out. Unfortunately only time will heal Marley, and he can't give her that.

Thank God for his commute–it takes him close to an hour to get home, but taking the ferry allows him to avoid traffic during rush hour, and it's a great way to unwind after a busy and hectic day at school. The splash of the water and the wind whistling as the ferry pushes further from shore, the fog in the early mornings and the view of the Golden Gate Bridge; every place in the world has its own charms. The longer he's in San Francisco the less he misses New York, though he still yearns for the same brio of the City streets, the people and the rhythm. San Francisco moves at a different pace, and even though he's lived here close to three years, his body still hasn't caught up.

Dusk has started setting in by the time he gets home–all the lights inside the house seem to be out, and he prepares for another lonely night on the couch with some take-out; he hates cooking for one, but he also hates making too much food for him to eat alone. He loves this house, the two-story colonial he'd spent weekend after weekend painting and decorating to make it into a real home, but it wasn't meant to be lived in by one person.

The scent hits him first.

He opens the front door and the distinct scent of roses greets him, as if the hallway and living room have been filled with them, but he quickly notices the perfume comes from the hundreds of rose petals littered across the floor. The fireplace crackles with a small fire and it takes several moments of his eyes adjusting to note that in the center of the living room there's a gigantic present waiting for him–it could easily fit two people.

He drops his bag to the floor, too excited to take off his coat and approaches the box, a card attached to the large bow that reads 'OPEN ME' in his boyfriend's neat handwriting. He pulls at the bow and the wrapping and lifts the lid off the box, but finds another box inside, about half the size of the bigger one.

His stomach curls with excitement and he strips off his coat, ready to get to work on what's bound to be quite a quest for whatever his real present will turn out to be–he pulls out the smaller box, which reveals another smaller box, which in turn reveals yet another one, smaller than the previous. He repeats the whole process about eight times, the entire living room filling up with wrapping paper before he's down to a hand-sized box that doesn't reveal its contents when he shakes it.

The bow comes off, along with the blue wrapping paper, and he lifts the lid.

A breath catches in his throat.

Inside this box isn't another small box with a bow around it, but a black velvet one.

A ring box.

He swallows hard, his hands shaking, heart beating frantic–he can't believe it's happening, after three years, after an endless amount of discussions about how marriage as an institution died out long ago, he's finally getting his proposal.

He opens the box, its hinges giving a small shriek.

But it's empty.

He blinks. He can't believe he rooted through that entire package only to find an empty ring box. Unless... did he drop it? Had the ring fallen out? His eyes scan the ground, but there's wrapping paper everywhere.

"You gotta say yes first," Hunter's voice sounds in the dark and his heart jumps; he hadn't noticed his boyfriend lurking in an unlit corner of the room.

Hunter comes closer, twirling the ring between his fingers, waiting patiently for his answer. He'd really like to hear the question, _will you marry me_, but his boyfriend isn't a man of too many words or too many romantic gestures, so he'll take what he can get.

He smiles, "_Yes_," he breathes, his feelings for Hunter far stronger than the frustration he occasionally experiences–Hunter's a romantic when he needs to be, that's more than enough.

Hunter leans in and captures his lips in a kiss, one he readily returns, his lips parting for _his fiancé_, arms winding around his neck. "I love you."

Hunter smiles against his lips and slides the ring around his finger.

"Ouch," he hisses when the ring proves too small to push past his second knuckle. "Ouch, Hunt–"

"Shit," Hunter curses. He sucks his finger into his mouth and tries the ring again, but it's decidedly too small for his finger–so he leaves it like it is. "You're not gonna read into this, are you?"

"God, no, we'll get it refitted." He draws a hand down Hunter's chest. "It's beautiful. I love it."

Hunter smiles, pulling away from him. "I'm gonna call Trent, tell him you said yes."

He frowns. "Was he worried?"

"Not about you," Hunter says, halfway into the next room already. "About the tour. He's hoping to fit the honeymoon into the schedule. How's Bora Bora sound?"

He smiles, but he's not sure the sentiment colors his eyes. For a moment he'd forgotten about the tour, that Hunter would be travelling the country to introduce his new kickboxing routine to crowds of men and women, half of them only there to see Hunter. Now it seems Hunter plans on getting married before the tour starts, which is only two weeks away–that's not enough time to plan a wedding, that's barely enough time to send out invitations, and he's not all too keen to rush his honeymoon either.

"Very sexy sexy," he answers nonetheless, and Hunter disappears into the next room.

He sits down on the couch, staring at the sterling silver ring halfway down his finger. It'll all be okay, he can handle a fair amount of stress and he's been waiting for this proposal long enough. He should feel lucky that Hunter put his own beliefs aside to give him what he wanted. He loves Hunter and Hunter loves him, and soon they'll be husbands.

He'll have to accept that this is as close to magic he'll get.

.

"Exceptional work, Sebastian." Mr Dreisler clasps a hand around his shoulder, followed by a pat on the back. "You have an amazing talent, son."

"You're too kind, sir," he says, leading Mr Dreisler out of the conference room.

His entire morning had comprised of presenting the firm's biggest client with several designs for his new restaurant, listing the pros and cons of the three locations Dreisler's contractors had scouted, discussing building materials that could be used, and answering the multitude of questions his team still had.

He's used to devoting months of his time to big accounts, and seeing them all the way through comes with a strange satisfaction–he's well aware it's pride more than anything, but he's good at his job and works hard to stay on top of things, one of the reasons he got put in charge of their overseas accounts.

Neither of his superiors had been able to make it downstairs for the presentation, so he was stuck alone sucking up to the tall German entrepreneur. He's not incapable of being polite or courteous, his parents taught him that from a young age, but it makes him feel fake. Lucky for him Mr Dreisler usually got down to business straight away and dispensed with small talk until after their meetings.

They step into an elevator together to get to the downstairs lobby.

"So," Mr Dreisler says. "Where are you honeymooning?"

"Paris," he answers, hands in his pockets, the buttons above the door lighting up in sequence. "I used to live there when I was younger."

Mr Dreisler nods. "Fine choice."

The elevator doors slide open and they step out into the lobby, shaking hands. "I look forward to working with you these coming months, sir," he says, watching as Mr Dreisler exits the building. Normally he waits in the lobby with clients while their drivers pull up a car, but Mr Dreisler had insisted on walking everywhere or taking the subway during his stay in New York–he wanted the same feel for the city most of his customers would have, which was commendable for a man who'd never actually work at his own restaurant.

He tracks back towards the main desk, where the receptionist, Sugar, was keeping an eye on incoming calls and deliveries, while coordinating job interviews at the same time–the couches in the far corner of the lobby were filled with young college students, fresh-faced and nervous, hoping to earn an internship at the firm.

"Good morning, Mr Smythe," Sugar croaks, her voice raspier than usual. "Adam called to let you know you have a hair appointment at one."

He laughs. "Like he'd ever let me forget."

Sugar stands up with the next interviewee file, calling out, "Blaine Andrews?" which makes his blood pressure drop to such a critical level his knees almost give out–he whirls around, heart beating fast, his eyes searching like they always do, like they've been conditioned to do after so many years of longing to see the one boy whose face has been carved into his memory like a meme passed on through generations.

But the boy that stands up can't be more than twenty years old, his hair a dirty blond and he wears glasses he keeps pushing up on the bridge of his nose.

Not his Blaine.

"Are you okay?" Sugar asks.

"I'm fine."

He takes a deep breath in the hopes of collecting himself, but he doesn't understand what this is, this panic that started months ago when Adam booked the Waldorf as the location for their wedding. He hasn't felt like this in seven years, when he rushed from one floor of the hotel to the other, searching strangers' faces for hazel eyes and that killer smile, until he ran out onto the street, snowflakes raining down, and New York felt colder that it usually did.

"I'm going to be out for the rest of the day," he says. "If anyone needs me they can reach me on my cellphone."

He walks a few blocks to his favorite deli for lunch, where the owner notices his presence right away–he doesn't even need to order anymore, Ken barks it at one of the guys behind the counter the moment he sets foot inside.

"You'll have to excuse the delay, Mr Smythe," Ken says, greedily taking his money. "We're training a new guy. Hey, Blaine!"

His change slips through his fingers and scatters all over the floor, the smaller coins dancing circles before losing their momentum. The boy who meets his eyes looks even younger than the previous Blaine, spots on his forehead and crooked teeth.

Not his Blaine.

Ken eyes him suspiciously as he hands over his lunch. "Everything okay? Not getting cold feet, are we?"

A smile pulls uneasy around his mouth. "Just having a weird day."

Unlike most days he takes his lunch to go, feeling no need to be haunted by the name Blaine any further. It was like the universe was revealing Blaine to him, which was ridiculous because the universe didn't communicate that way, the universe didn't communicate with anyone at all, ever, period. It didn't send little signals for people to interpret, like somehow their lives lay plotted out in various combinations, one leading to happiness, the other to something less perfect or even disastrous.

The world didn't work like that.

And yet, when he's directed into a chair at the hairdresser's, a place Adam picked out for him long ago and he still came to because it was convenient, a chill runs up his spine when a new girl comes up behind him and runs her fingers through his hair.

"Hi, my name is Blaine, and I'm going to cut your hair today."

He glances up from his magazine, the reflection in the mirror showing him a girl with raven hair, hazel eyes, and a pierced bottom lip. "Blaine?"

Blaine scoffs and puts a hand to her side, "Yeah, it's a girl's name too."

He drops the magazine to the table and peels off the barber cloth, walking out without a second look back. This can't be happening, the universe has decided to play some sick joke on him days before his wedding. He's tried so hard to put Blaine–_his Blaine_–out of his mind, to forget that perfect night, to move on with a guy who was damn near perfect. He asked Adam to marry him, he mustered up the courage to say they were ready for the next step, that they could spend the rest of their lives together. And Blaine had absolutely nothing to do with that.

But the universe is seriously testing his convictions.

He stands idle on the sidewalk for what could be hours, his feet unwilling to move, his heart pulled in two directions–he went through all this years ago, the doubt, the questions, the searching, but now there are more parts to the equation and it's gotten increasingly more complicated to see the forest for the trees.

So he goes to the one place where he might find some clarity. Santana usually has the right words, she knows him better than anyone and maybe she can shed some light on this conflict. It's only a few blocks to the dance studio Santana runs with Brittany, and the walk calms his nerves, slows his heartbeat to an acceptable stutter, but a great deal of anxiety still crawls below the surface of his skin.

Santana has just finished teaching a class, and he waits for all the students to pour out of the room before he makes his way inside.

"How many Blaines do you reckon there are in New York?" he asks, his voice reverberating off the walls.

Santana turns around, wiping a towel down her cleavage. "What?"

"I ran into three of them today."

"And?" Santana slowly makes her way over, but he can only offer a shrug in answer–hearing Blaine's name come out of other people's mouth messes with his head, it's like hearing his name spoken by a non-native English speaker, somehow rolling off another's tongue wrong even though the intent behind it is legitimate.

"Okay, you know what this is?" Santana says. "This is you getting cold feet. You're finally realizing that in three days from now you're vowing eternal devotion to one and the same guy and your penis is panicking."

He shakes his head. "That's not what this is."

Santana raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"I'm sure about Adam, okay?" He leans back against one of the ballet barres. "It's been four years and I get that it's a mistake to compare them, but–"

"But what? You knew this guy for one night." Santana throws up her hands. "What's this really about?"

What it's really about is that he met Blaine long before Adam, what it's about is that Blaine charmed him in two minutes flat, what it's about is that Blaine has been on his mind for seven fucking years and despite falling for Adam he can't forget about the few hours they spent together.

"I fell in love with Adam because he reminded me of Blaine."

"So you're getting married to Blaine 2.0. Big deal." Santana shrugs. "You don't know anything about this Blaine guy. It's been seven years. He could be married with three fat Jewish children. You don't know. You can't know."

He sighs. "Not without the book."

"Oh, here we go." Santana rolls her eyes and digs a manicured nail into his chest. "This was cute when we were still in college, Sebastian. We've grown up."

He doesn't disagree with Santana, chances are Blaine moved on with someone else, maybe even the nameless boyfriend that had stood between them, but he can't stand not knowing, he hates being in the dark about things. He wants to know if it'd be the same, if seeing Blaine now would transform him back to that nineteen-year-old who thought he had everything figured out until one look into honey-hazel eyes negated all of that. Blaine turned him into a lovesick idiot without making him want to run for the hills.

He wants to know if Blaine was the missed little signal the universe had sent him.

He grabs Santana's hand.

"I don't want any part in this," she says, attempting to free her hand to poke at his chest again, but he grabs her other hand too. "I'm your best man. And as your best man I am telling you to go home to Doctor Who and realize you can't throw everything away for some pipe dream."

"Easy for you to say," he says. "You have the perfect relationship."

Santana sighs, her body falling forward against his, and says what only a best friend would: "I can't believe we're gonna do this again."

They spent the next few hours hitting up every bookstore they come across, and maybe it is a pipe dream, maybe he's chasing an impossible fantasy, but he thinks that maybe he needed to be a bit more like Blaine, open to fortunate accidents, a name mentioned three times in one day, revisiting places from his past, a book and a five-dollar bill containing contact information somewhere out there in the big bad world. The universe would never talk to him if he wasn't the least bit responsive to its calls.

But with every book he opens, every page as empty as the next, his hope dissipates like water exposed to the sun–Santana puts up with it as long as she can, asking store owners if maybe they have extra copies hidden away somewhere, much like she had years ago, but every disappointment proceeds the next, and he guesses maybe it is cold feet after all, maybe Blaine has become an excuse for him to weasel out of a commitment that was his idea to begin with.

By the time he gets home he's completely drained and he has little hope of ever finding Blaine–seven years was too long, even in this age of globalization and social media there was no way to find a guy without a last name. He could go through every Blaine with a Facebook profile, but it had to be public or his profile picture had to be clear enough, and he simply didn't know enough details about Blaine's life to even start a proper internet search.

It was hopeless.

Maybe it's best he figured that out before getting married to another guy.

Adam's rooting through some of their stuff in the living room when he makes it home, something cooking in the kitchen, and he decides it's time to let it all go. He's getting married to a guy he loves very much, a guy he gave a chance because he reminded him of Blaine–it wasn't anything in the way he looked or talked, physically Blaine and Adam couldn't be any more different, but there was something about Adam's undying belief in romance that had tempted him closer.

He sits down next to Adam on the living room floor before he gets yanked closer by his tie, falling into a kiss he eagerly returns. He licks his tongue into Adam's mouth, making his fiancé moan, and he relaxes for the first time that day, his heart finally finding a rhythm, the muscles in his shoulders unspooling, and he thinks this is enough. Adam's enough.

Adam draws a hand through his hair. "That's a great haircut."

A corner of his mouth twitches. "Thanks."

Adam bumps his nose against his, demanding another kiss. "Tell me you love me."

He smiles. "I love you."

"Tell me something romantic," Adam says, and runs his hands down his chest.

"Like what?" he whispers.

"I don't know," Adam groans. "Like I'm the only boy in the universe meant for you. Or is that too sappy for Sebastian Smythe?"

He breathes a smile, momentary panic making way for the latent realization that there has to be more than one person on this planet he can be happy with. He's been happy with Adam for four years, and despite their occasional fights neither of them have ever said or done anything bad enough to drive the other away. From now on Blaine will be a what-if, a surprise the universe threw at him to make him see he could be someone's boyfriend if he ever met the right person.

So Adam wasn't the only boy for him, but he was one of the right ones. And that was enough.

The smoke alarm in the kitchen shrieks before he gets the chance to tell Adam.

"Bloody hell." Adam scrambles up from the floor and runs for the kitchen. He watches Adam jump up and down, much too amusing not to observe from a distance, waving a towel at the device attached to the ceiling. "By the way," Adam calls, "I emptied your closet. We need to pack for the honeymoon."

He assumes the mess all over the coffee table and the couch must be his then, but if Adam thinks he's going to pack any of the knitted sweaters his mother gifted him every Christmas he's gravely mistaken; he wouldn't be caught dead in any of them. He digs through his things, discovering more than a few lacrosse trophies... and a red Bloomingdale's shopping bag that takes his breath away.

"I hate this building!" Adam shouts.

"Don't hit it with the thing!" he calls, too preoccupied by the red bag decorated with a candy cane, and hears Adam bang a ladle against the smoke alarm a few seconds later.

"Sebastian, sweetheart," Adam calls. "I'm gonna go yell at the super."

"Yeah, okay," he answers absentmindedly, pulling a black cashmere glove from the bag he hasn't laid eyes on in years. He runs a hand through his hair a few times, replaying old memories over and over, seeing Blaine for the first time, gorgeous eyes that matched his smile, that glaring red bowtie, rosy cheeks after hours of ice skating, hazel eyes that turned black under a starlit sky.

He tips the bag upside town, the receipt floating down into his waiting hand, and he can't help but wonder if this is another sign–he didn't know he still had the glove or the bag, it was forgotten somewhere at the back of his closet until Adam unearthed it, but is this one of life's little signals? If he ignores this, will he regret it forever?

Better yet, what does it even mean?

His eyes scan the small paper, from the 'Thank you for shopping at Bloomingdale's, New York' printed on top of the paper, to the account number at the bottom of the receipt.

Blaine paid with a Bloomingdale's credit card.

Would a department store keep records for that long?

.

Hunter presses a kiss behind his ear, whispering, "He's good," before pulling back.

Blaine steals another kiss and returns his attention to the stage, where his older brother Cooper lunges into an encore only because one of the tables in the cafe was occupied by five young women who seemed to be Cooper's biggest fans.

"He's ridiculous," he chuckles, snuggling closer to his fiancé. "But yeah, he's pretty good."

Cooper had insisted on taking them out for a drink to celebrate their engagement, since they wouldn't have much time to party with the wedding planned so soon. It'd taken him the better part of a day, in between classes and grading papers, but he'd managed to book a chapel for the wedding, and he'd even found a free day for their parents to attend the wedding too–it wasn't the wedding planning he dreamed about, he wouldn't painstakingly be picking out table settings or the right cake, but a wedding didn't reflect on an entire marriage.

The next two weeks would be stressful, but after that he gets a vacation to relax with Hunter, and that sounded like a dream come true. He stares down at his engagement ring, refitted and snug around his ring finger, and smiles; he was marrying someone he loved very much. That was enough.

"Good news," Trent's voice pierces through his thoughts like a needle through a balloon, stealing any hope of having Hunter alone tonight or any night before the tour starts. Trent had invited himself along, rather than keep Hunter updated through text messages and phone calls. And he likes Trent, he organized Hunter's hectic schedule with precision and attention to detail, but sometimes it made him feel like Hunter was never completely his, part of him belonged to Trent or his clients or his job at any given time. Which made him feel lonelier than he cared to admit.

"Your Miami dates sold out in eight hours," Trent says. "So we'll push back LA, and–"

"Wait, no," panic sits him upright, the same minute dread he'd been ignoring all day. "You can't change any of the dates."

Hunter puts a hand on his arm. "Blaine–"

"I cleared everything with the school." He looks at Hunter. "I can't just throw around my entire schedule to–"

"Come on, squirt," Cooper interrupts, "a few more days of vacation won't kill you."

Hunter chuckles. "You're just saying that because you want to housesit."

Cooper points at Hunter. "I was going to ask him that when he was drunk."

"I think it's a great idea," Hunter says, making the decision for him. He trusts Cooper with their house, he'll probably use it to seduce some girl he's already set his eyes on, maybe even one of the women at the next table, but he'd appreciate it if Hunter at least consults him on things like this. Brother-in-law or not, he likes to maintain some measure of control over his life.

"Your brother's right," Hunter adds. "You can use the time off."

Cooper slinks away to the next table.

"I have responsibilities, Hunter." He picks at the buttons on Hunter's polo, avoiding his eyes. "I can't just throw those away because it's inconvenient."

But before Hunter can get a word in Trent's back with another question, "Hunter, can we talk about the T-shirt designs?" he asks, before Trent checks with him. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, he doesn't mind," Hunter answers for him and plants a kiss to his temple, following behind Trent to a secluded area in the bar.

He slumps back in his seat, attempting to get a hold of himself, but all of a sudden it's gotten harder to breathe–he does mind, that's the problem, he understands he's not Trent's main concern, but he hates how this tour has become Hunter's number one priority. He can't figure out why Hunter would've proposed at a time like this and not wait for things to calm down, at least then everything wouldn't feel so urgent or rushed and he wouldn't feel guilty for condemning Hunter for his choices. Hunter isn't perfect, he's not perfect, and their relationship isn't either, but they've never been in such an uncertain place. They usually manage to find time to talk things through, but right now everything feels close-by yet out of his reach, like he's living inside a vacuum at the center of chaos–and it's not a pleasant place to be trapped.

He grabs his coat, desperate for a cigarette, and quickly runs out before anyone can notice him gone. Once outside, he's struck by the sudden drop in temperature, aided by the pouring rain turning everything dark and glum. He walks fast, ducking under storefront canopies where he can until he finds a small bodega.

He shakes the rain out of his clothes and hair, digging around in his pockets for some spare change–he doesn't actually like smoking, it's a bad habit and it stinks up his clothes, but he's found that it takes the edge off when he's too stressed to function properly. And with his lungs this uncooperative, he could use something to ease the tension.

But he halts dead in his tracks once he lays eyes on the display window–he stops breathing altogether, heart rate spiking at the recollection of a memory more overwhelming than unwelcome. He touches the glass carefully, as if it might break should he push too hard, and he stares unblinking, afraid his eyes are deceiving him.

Behind the window there's a row of posters for a movie he hasn't thought about in years. _The Goonies_.

Sebastian's favorite movie.

A chill runs up his spine, deeper than a cold shiver and stronger than any emotion that's ever coursed through his veins. He tries so hard not to think back on that night, a cold New York night three days before his first Christmas in the city, the kindness of a stranger, warm smiles and hours of ice-skating. The memories shouldn't have stayed with him like this, in such precise detail and with a clarity he's longed for ever since.

He searched for Sebastian after he broke up with Eli, retraced their footsteps from Bloomingdale's to Serendipity, from the ice-rink to the Waldorf Astoria, he took every chance he got in between classes and work, checked every five-dollar bill customers handed him, rifled through them again at the end of every day. But he never found it, no matter how badly he wanted it, no matter how hard he tried. It's like the universe had closed that path to him because he never took his chance when it first presented itself.

Moving on was hard, the fresh pain of a break-up and the loss Sebastian represented, but he remembered that night fondly. He focused on school and internships for a long time, meeting a lot of interesting people along the way, dating a few guys before he met Hunter.

And when Hunter had asked him to move to San Francisco with him, where his brother and his best friend already lived, it wasn't difficult to leave the city behind. It was a fresh start, a way to leave his past behind, the boys and the teenage dreams, and most importantly, it was a way to keep Sebastian in New York, file him away as a happy memory, a fortunate accident, a missed opportunity.

Life would always have its disappointments, but life had also given him Hunter, an energetic hunk of a man who was beyond crazy about him, even if he needed reminding from time to time. He missed New York, but San Francisco was the next chapter in his life.

But the movie poster staring back at him behind the glass combined with his rising stress levels and burgeoning doubts make him question everything. Just yesterday he told Marley there was no such thing as a soulmate, that there was more than one right person out there for everyone, and he believed that, but once upon a time he was a naive schoolboy who believed in loving blindly, in surrendering and falling into a relationship headfirst and spinning. And sometimes, especially on days when Hunter was less than attentive, he wished he could be that boy again. Because then maybe he'd be strong enough, then maybe he could be a little selfish and a lot heartless and set out in search for his soulmate.

He still looks out for that five-dollar bill, still hopes that every time his phone rings and his screen reads 'caller unknown' it'll be Sebastian's voice on the other end. It's a constant cycle of what-if versus right-now and the dull ache in his chest persists.

He doesn't return to the cafe. Instead he goes home and takes a shower, stays up reading for about an hour before his eyes start drooping. That night he dreams about snowflakes kissing his skin and freckles that map out constellations, green eyes and a beautiful smile and a ratty old sweater that makes him laugh.

The next morning he wakes up early when he senses Hunter sit down on his side of the bed. He sniffles, practically cooing once Hunter starts running a hand through his curls.

"Where'd you disappear to last night?" Hunter asks softly, waiting patiently for him to open his eyes.

"I was tired," he answers, curling around Hunter's body. "And you and Cooper were busy."

Seconds pass, and he drowns in the amazing feel of Hunter carding his fingers through his hair, until a soft, "I'm sorry," makes him feel like the worst boyfriend in the world. Hunter loves him, there's no doubt about that, so why can't he let go of his past? Why can't he forget the boy with the green eyes?

"We'll talk later, okay?" Hunter says, leaning in for a quick kiss. "Promise."

He nods, licking his lips, and watches Hunter make his way out of the room. His alarm goes off no ten minutes later and he makes a quick start of his day, leaving little room for him to get lost in thoughts about one night years ago his imagination has probably distorted into something better than it was.

At lunch he decides to go see Sam. Part-time model and part-time bartender, Sam has been his best friend since high school–he had moved to San Francisco after graduating high school, and the two of them had reunited when he joined Hunter here. He could always count on Sam to put him straight. While he was obsessed with details and planning, Sam took life the way it came. He hoped Sam would give him some advice about his predicament.

"So what, dude?" is the first thing out of Sam's mouth when he tells him about the movie poster. "It was a movie poster. It's a really good movie."

"It's just–" He drops his hands on top of the bar, the beer Sam deposited there to keep him calm untouched–he can't drink when he still has to return to the school, and he hasn't touched his food. He's sick to his stomach with anxiety and it's not like him. "It's been seven years. I shouldn't still think about him."

"Look, way I see it, this whole wedding thing and Hunter's tour is wigging you out," Sam says. "And you have every right to be, but talk to Hunter about it. Ask him to postpone."

He rests his fist to his temple. "He won't listen."

"So you're going to balance a three-year relationship with one night you had with a guy in New York?"

"I know how stupid it sounds." He closes his eyes. "Lately I just feel like I'm settling."

"For what?" Sam asks. "For a guy who loves you?"

A razor sharp pain cuts through him–he's being a horrible person and a terrible boyfriend. Hunter sacrificed his beliefs about marriage for him, and that gesture spoke volumes. Hunter loves and respects him, he's supportive despite being dismissive about his schedule sometimes, but it's nothing people break up over.

He's not settling, he's in a relationship with another human being as complicated as he is, with his own needs and desires, his own belief system, and somehow they've made that work for three years. All his own beliefs were sacrificed long before he met Hunter, he stopped searching for signals from the universe, he doesn't listen to his gut instinct, but despite all of that he's happy, he has a great job, and a great relationship.

So why is he trying to find a way out?

.

Bloomingdale's looks nothing like it had seven years ago, and it only underscores how long it's been, how much everything has changed, including him. He used to believe that a relationship would drag him down, and maybe it would have meant more responsibility than he cared to shoulder at the time–before Blaine he only had short flings, a few nights with the same guy before anything real could start, but he'd been serious about Blaine two seconds in, and it'd been a wake up call.

Sebastian walks over to one of the counters that doesn't have any customers crowding around it–he has an hour lunch break, he's hoping it'll be enough to get the information he needs, or enough to deal with the disenchantment of seeing another flame extinguished.

"Good morning," the bright young woman behind the counter smiles, red hair and big Bambi eyes. "How may I help you today?"

He holds up the receipt, turned yellow after years of lying dormant in his closet. "I need to know the name attached to this account."

The saleswoman, _Emma_ according to her nametag, taps her fingers on the counter. "Well, I'm not sure I'm allowed to do that," she says, and picks up the phone to her left. "Let me just call–"

He reaches forward, missing her arm by an inch when she flinches back. "Please," he begs. "I need to find the owner of this account." He takes a deep breath, deciding that some vulnerability on his part could work in his favor. "I let this boy walk out of my life seven years ago and I think it might have been the biggest mistake of my life. I need to find him."

"Seven years?" Emma's big brown eyes go even wider. "I've only worked here for three."

"But your computer records must go back further than that," he says, grasping at straws. He's not sure how much more of this he can take–after all these years he finally has a lead again but he keeps hitting walls. He needs something to give or he'll lose his mind. "I would never ask this if it wasn't important."

Emma eyes him mindfully. "Why'd you let him go?"

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You said you let him walk away," Emma says. "Why'd you do that?"

His lips part with an initial answer, but it doesn't seem good enough, it doesn't encompass this burning flame of hope in his heart that's been running on nothing but cinders. Any moment now it'll die out forever, Blaine will be nothing but a memory, and fate will have run the only course he allowed it.

Why did he walk away? Why did Blaine walk away? Was it fear, or guilt?

No.

"Because I was young and stupid and I had no idea what was standing in front of me until I lost it," he says, unburdened by a foolish boy's pride. He didn't understand what he lost with Blaine until he fell in love with Adam. Blaine was like the original movie he had to watch before being able to appreciate the sequel–he needed to have those feelings for Adam to realize he had them for Blaine all along.

"What changed?"

He chuckles. "Absolutely nothing."

Emma smiles, the kind of smile a teacher or a grandparent might offer and it puts him at ease immediately. She reaches for the receipt and types in the account number, humming a tune he fails to recognize.

"Oh dear," Emma frowns, her eyes focused on the monitor, reading over the information displayed. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but it's a dead account. There's no info on our computers."

His fingers tighten around the counter, jaw clenching.

"Don't worry though," Emma rushes out before his hope withers and dies. "When our customers apply for a credit card, the hard copies go to our storage facility in Queens. All you need is the account number to find his application."

"I can do that?"

Emma leans over the counter as if they're co-conspirators and whispers, "You need an employee to get you in," before her face breaks out in a wide smile, a twinkle in her eyes.

Did he just find an ally in his search for Blaine?

It's still a long shot, there's no guarantee they'd even find the application, it could've gotten lost or destroyed, but his skin tingles with fresh excitement.

They agree to meet up in Queens first thing in the morning, and he turns it over for the rest of the day–he could have Blaine's full name tomorrow, he could find out where he lived and maybe even find him, talk to him, see what kind of man the boy from his memories has become.

Adam's fast asleep in bed when he makes it home much too late that night; he spent hours at the office sketching plans for projects he'd put on hold until after the honeymoon, but drawing distracted him like nothing else.

He's tempted to wake Adam up, to ask him how people even thought up the notion of soulmates, where did they get the idea that there might only be one match for one person in the entire world–it's either tragically sad or beautifully optimistic, and he can't hold to that. If he does, he's kind of screwed.

"Adam?" he calls, lying down next to his fiancé. "Babe?"

But Adam doesn't stir.

.

On Friday Blaine comes home to Hunter and Trent watching Hunter's new commercial, fresh from the editor, which will no doubt be subjected to plenty of commentary any moment now. Neither of them take any notice of him until he drops his keys on the table next to the front door, and Hunter calls back a, "Hey, babe."

He walks over and kisses Hunter's hair, but leaves them to their work–he's always thought fitness commercials slightly ridiculous, an opinion he actually shares with Hunter, but if he wanted his product out there he'd have to endure days where he parades out in front of a camera with the director taking close-up shots of his abs. And he can't deny it's nice to be able to objectify his boyfriend from time to time.

He heads upstairs to slip into a more comfortable outfit, one befitting a night on the couch, with or without his fiancé. There's some money on Hunter's nightstand and he reaches for the five-dollar bill on instinct, turning it over with trembling fingers, an odd itch at the base of his spine that has returned after years of slumber.

But there's no handwriting on the back.

He snickers a laugh, still caught off guard every time the disillusionment rears its ugly head–he didn't think he could still feel it after so many years, but regret has surfaced right alongside his doubts. He has to talk to Hunter, about getting away for a few days, their impending nuptials have been weighing him down and he's making himself sick trying to hold it all together. He wants to marry Hunter, but not like this.

So he returns downstairs, no more sign of Trent, and he breathes in relief. There's Chinese take-out on the coffee table and Hunter's waiting arms, where he settles moments later.

"Can we talk?" he asks, because they hadn't talked last night like Hunter promised, and if they don't now he's afraid the silence will destroy them.

Hunter kisses his hair. "Sure."

He sits up, one of Hunter's arms draped around his neck, and finds his fiancé's green eyes, so much different than Sebastian's, but an anchor in a world he loses track of so often–Hunter has been there for him when it mattered and now that his world spins faster than ever he needs Hunter to hear him. "I lost my keys this morning," he says, losing his nerve–he's not sure how to say this, he's never felt this much doubt in their relationship before.

Hunter frowns. "And you want me to change the locks?"

"No, the locks are–" He laughs. "I found them in the freezer."

"I don't know where you're going with this."

"I'm going crazy, Hunt," he confesses, the worst part about it that he hasn't even begun to lie. His head's about to burst, and all non-relevant information, like where he put his keys, has gotten buried under dates and plans and numbers and he's losing himself. "Work, the wedding, the tour, I need a break."

Hurt flashes in Hunter's eyes and his body goes tense all of a sudden. "Like–"

"Not that kind of break," he hushes, a hand on Hunter's stomach. "Just–a weekend away somewhere, all to myself."

"Like where?"

He casts down his eyes. "I was thinking maybe New York," he says, leaving out the part where he's going to New York with a mission, one final chance to find Sebastian before he decides whether he should get married at all. He wants a fairytale wedding with the man he loves, but even that's become blurred; he's conceded so many things, not all his friends will be able to make it, he didn't get the venue he wanted, he won't get the time he needs. Something has to give, and right now he's the only one that will.

Hunter nods, even though he can tell he's not too pleased to hear his request. "If it's what you need."

He hugs Hunter tight, trying to remember a time not too long ago where this was so much simpler.

.

Sebastian starts early on Saturday and gets Santana to tag along, though he suspects she indulges him so she can stop him from doing anything stupid, like miss his own wedding rehearsal because he was busy chasing a guy he might've actually made up at some point. Because he's not sure of anything anymore, his entire life has become unhinged in only a few days–he's hardly slept, he's barely eaten, he's running on hope and dreams and those will only get him so far.

The next disappointment might be his last.

They leaf through credit bills all morning, the files labeled by account number. Sadly there are a staggering amount of people shopping at Bloomingdale's, and a truly astounding number of people who applied for a Bloomingdale's credit card around the same time Blaine did. So he digs through boxes of carbon paper all day, Emma to his left and Santana to his right, the latter sighing every few minutes and taking her sweet time nosing through her boxes.

"Tell me these numbers match," he blurts out their fourth hour in, the numbers on the page all blurring together in random lines of black and blue ink. He pulls the paper further back so Santana and Emma can take a look too, but the top of the page reads 'Blaine'; it has to be the right application.

His heart jackhammers against his ribcage.

"They do!" Emma shouts, jumping up and down. "They do!"

He sighs, some of the words on the paper turned into illegible smudges after years of sitting idle inside a cardboard box. Just his luck. "I can't make out the last name."

"What?" Santana asks, yanking the paper closer. "We have the address."

"It's seven years old."

"Amateur," Santana scoffs, typing the address into her phone. "We'll go to the building's leasing office and find out who used to live there."

For a few moments he's stunned into silence, astounded that Santana would even think to do that; he never would've thought of that, he probably would've given up without ever second-guessing the outcome. Thank God for his best friend. "You're a genius."

"Yeah." Santana turns on her heels. "I am."

.

Blaine's never decided on anything faster in his life. Usually he sits down to think about his options, weigh the pros and cons before coming to an informed conclusion, only reason had nothing to do with his perfect night with Sebastian, so he wasn't applying it now. It doesn't make sense, he's lying to his fiancé and his best friend, and he has no idea if Sebastian's even still an option. But if he doesn't do this now he'll regret it for the rest of his life, it'll haunt him forever, and that's no way to go through life.

So he shows up on Sam's doorstep before the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, bags already packed, holding up the tickets as soon as the door opens. "Happy birthday!" he calls, hoping to spook the fatigue right out of Sam; technically his birthday isn't until next Tuesday, but they've been talking about city-tripping as bros for ages, and he sees no other way to get Sam to come to New York with him.

Sam snatches the tickets from his hands. "Get out," he says. "Are these for us?"

"Of course." He smiles, but Sam eyes him suspiciously. "Can't a guy treat his best friend for his birthday?"

Sam looks over the tickets again before rewarding him with a shit-eating grin and a hug that almost crushes his ribs. "I love you, man."

He pats Sam on the back but doesn't say anything. He's not proud of luring Sam with him like this, but he needs his best friend and Sam wouldn't come if he told him the truth.

Sam packs faster than should be humanly possible, and by the time they sit down on the plane he's running on nothing but hope and adrenaline. Sam falls asleep, but he's wide awake the entire flight, acutely aware of everything he stands to lose; if he finds Sebastian he'll probably lose Hunter, Sam will be upset with him and he might leave behind the new life he started in San Francisco; if Sebastian's moved on he'll lose his perfect stranger, his dream, his fantasy, the belief that somehow it's all still connected even if he gave up on such thinking long ago; if he never finds Sebastian he could still lose Hunter, his regret could undo him the moment he comes back home and all the stress of the wedding and the tour returns. No matter what someone will get hurt, and it'll be all his fault.

Love had slapped him down long before he met Sebastian, he'd felt the cold sting of rejection, he'd been mistreated by a boy who he believed was his soulmate but had to revise that undying belief remarkably fast. Eli had been much more solid, he trusted Eli like no other, but in the end he'd been nothing more than a rebound.

He's never been able to make Sebastian fit anywhere, he was a fluke, that entire night a dream he'd woken up from the next morning uncertain if it had even happened, but there was a cashmere glove stuck in one of his jacket pockets so it had to have been real. Sebastian had been cocky and flirty, but it all clicked naturally, everything made sense, from the ridiculous encounter they had at Bloomingdale's to the ice-cream coffee at Serendipity, the universe bringing them back together right after they said their goodbyes.

Could one night have changed his life so thoroughly? Things were never quite the same.

They land at JFK around eleven, catching a cab the moment they make it outside.

"Where to?" the driver asks.

He chews his lip, but Sam leaves the decision up to him. And he already knew his answer. "Anywhere in New York. Wherever you feel like going," he says, invigorated by the idea that he's retracing his own footsteps, that he's going to follow fate wherever it takes him these next two days. He's not just looking for Sebastian, he's back in the city of big dreamers and romantics and more than anything he's searching for himself, that boy he lost track of ages ago, reawakened during one crazy night where New York truly felt like the place his dreams would come true.

The driver turns around in his seat, "That's not a destination, man."

Sam leans forward. "You didn't make reservations?"

He turns to his best friend, about to lie through his teeth, but he can't, not with Sam's eyes wide in question. Sam has supported him through everything. He can't keep lying. "Sam, please don't get mad."

Understanding kicks in right away. "I don't believe this," Sam says, back out of the cab faster than he can register. Sam has never understood what that night meant to him, he's not sure anyone ever could without going through a similar experience, but that doesn't make him proud about lying.

"Sam, wait!" he calls once he catches up with him inside the airport.

Sam whirls around. "How could you do this to me?"

"You wouldn't have come if I told you the truth."

"I don't understand this," Sam says. "You have an amazing life, a great job, a great guy and you're here chasing some fantasy. Tell me something I can make sense of or I swear to God–"

"I don't know if I wanna marry Hunter," he blurts out, the words as surprising to him as they are to Sam–he hasn't said it, he's not sure he's thought it up until now, but as much as he dreams about being someone's husband one day he's not sure he can commit to Hunter for the rest of his life. He can't keep coming in second to his career.

So it's more than that.

He's not sure if he wants to be with Hunter at all anymore.

"Because of this guy?"

"Because–" he pauses to collect his thoughts, but they've been running rampant for days, "I don't know myself anymore," he says. "I don't know who I am in my relationship, and the only time I can remember feeling like I was exactly where I needed to be was with Sebastian."

Stolen moments on a cold winter day, a night that didn't end, a night he didn't want to end because everything was easy, simple, all that mattered was him and Sebastian while the rest of the world slowly spun around them.

"I've been lying to myself," he says. "All I can think about is a complete stranger I met a million and a half hours ago when it felt like the whole universe existed just to bring us together."

Tears fill up his eyes because he knew this years ago, but he'd stopped himself, he was the only one standing in his way and at the time it had seemed the best decision for all the right reasons. He can't even say he'd do anything different, he had to stay true to himself and what he felt, but look at him now, crying in the middle of an airport, tricking his best friend into coming with him because there was a part of him that's beyond terrified he might never find what he's searching for.

"That's why I'm here," he says. "That's why I need this."

Silence falls, and Sam can't meet his eye.

"I understand if you prefer to go home, but I can't go back yet."

He gathers his things together again and leaves Sam alone to think, hailing another cab outside. His engagement ring weighs heavy around his ring finger as he climbs inside the cab, asking the driver to wait, a voice from the past calling out to him. Even if Sam goes home he has to see this through, he needs to find out if letting Sebastian go that night was the fatal mistake he's been paying for ever since.

The door to the cab opens and Sam tosses his bags onto the back seat, sitting down next to him.

"Where are you headed?" the cab driver asks.

Sam shrugs. "The Waldorf, I guess."

He smiles, and relaxes back in his seat. This is it. His final chance to find Sebastian.

.

The leasing office smells dusty and old, a dozen desks thrown together in a large and poorly air-conditioned room, filled with a cacophony of sound coming from the phones, the people behind the desks, and tenants complaining about their rent or the plumbing in the building.

After a short wait Sebastian and Santana are directed to a small desk in a corner of the room, greeted by a fresh-faced youngster who barely looks old enough to be working there. The improvised paper nametag on the desk reads 'Ryder Lynn.'

They plead their case as fast as they can, pressed for time.

"I'm not sure I can give you that information."

"Why not?"

"I'm just a temp, okay?" Ryder says. "I don't know the rules."

He shakes his head. "A couple of months out of school and you're already part of the establishment."

"What about privacy laws?" Ryder asks. "They're in place to keep people from being catfished and cheated out of personal information you never would have shared otherwise."

He and Santana exchange a quick glance, silently agreeing they touched a nerve that had little to do with their request.

"Look, Ringo Starr, all we need is a name." Santana rummages through her bag and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, which she slides towards Ryder across the desk. "So, please, type in the address and then walk away from your desk for a minute."

Ryder eyes the money on his desk, but doesn't seem particularly reluctant to take it. "Fine," he says, tapping at the keyboard. He turns the screen around so they can read it and gets up, whispering, "I never gave you this."

Both he and Santana lean closer to the monitor. "Kurt Hummel?" he reads the name at the top of the screen, but that's all the records list. "That can't be right."

"It's what we have." Santana types the name down in her phone same as before. "Maybe it's the boyfriend. Come on."

It doesn't feel quite right, leaving the leasing office with a new clue that'll probably lead them to yet another clue, but it's the best they have so far. This had all seemed much simpler yesterday, when Blaine only felt a single step out of reach, but now several steps later he still hasn't found a shred of information on Blaine or his whereabouts. Maybe he's chasing a ghost, maybe there's no light at the end of this long and tedious tunnel, maybe he's doing this for reasons he doesn't entirely understand yet. He's in a committed relationship with a great guy. Why is he suddenly trying to find a way out?

His inattention collides him into a passerby, whose Dalmatian runs around him in circles, entangling him in its leash several times. He struggles to get free, Santana off to the side making a phone call.

Santana gets off the phone and smiles up at him. "Kurt Hummel currently resides in Brooklyn, New York," she says, exactly the right amount of pride and cockiness he's used to from his best friend; apparently Santana had a 'lady friend' at the New York Times who could get her information faster than directory assistance.

"Let's go."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Santana grabs his arm. "Your wedding rehearsal?"

"No, we have time," he says, but he means _what if he runs out of time_? What if he doesn't find his answer before tomorrow and he'll have to decide: Blaine or Adam? He's lived with the weight of that question since he met Adam, he's always had Blaine at the back of his mind, thinking that if he ever found him the choice would be easy. But now that it's here, pulled so close and urgent, he's not sure what he wants.

He has no idea what he's doing anymore.

.

Finding Sebastian would prove far easier in theory. New York housed ten million people over an area of over three hundred square miles and he didn't even have Sebastian's last name. He has no idea where to start. He couldn't look him up in the phonebook, couldn't call directory assistance, he couldn't even google him without searching for a proverbial needle in a stack of more needles. This was an impossible quest in an impossible city in pursuit of a boy seven years removed.

"So?" Sam asks, after they checked into the Waldorf and find themselves outside on the sidewalk. "Where to?"

Blaine glances to his left, and his right, and back again. Everything feels the same yet it's all changed, the city moves at the same speed but he's not in sync with it anymore, can't feel the vibrancy coursing through him like it once did when he was younger–it would take time to get used to the rhythm and the rhyme of the city again.

He throws his hands up. "I don't know."

"Come on, man. What does your gut tell you?"

In his memory he sees himself write down his name and number on a piece of paper, snatched from between Sebastian's fingers by a cruel twist of fate. He wouldn't be here now if he'd written it down a second time, if he'd listened to Sebastian's pleas and seen what was right in front of him. But there's no time for those kinds of regrets, what's done is done, he can't go back and change anything, he can only move forward and hope to hear fate's call this time around.

"Right," he points decisively. Maybe they can make their way back to the park, to the ice-rink, which wouldn't have any actual ice anymore so far into spring, but it's where he and Sebastian had spent most of their time. He's running on faith only, and he has to believe more than ever that it's possible for him to find Sebastian, he'll click his heels three times and wish for it to happen if he has to. And maybe it will. Maybe he'll get his fairytale.

They're only a block further when suddenly Sam breaks out into a sprint, crossing the street to buy a hotdog from the vendor on the corner.

"You ate two meals on the plane."

"I haven't had one of these in years," Sam says, adding plenty of ketchup to his hotdog. "You want one?"

"No, thanks," he says, searching his surroundings for a clue where to go next. He's missed the city so much, he never truly realized how much until now. It's strange how a place can trigger memories, how walking these streets again transforms him right back to a college student trying to make his way in the big city right alongside other dreamers.

He gets so caught up in his daydreaming he almost jumps two feet high when something wraps around his legs, but when he checks to see what it is the Dalmatian has already spun around his legs a few times, his legs caught in its leash. Its owner mumbles his apologies and something about this happening to a lot of strangers. He spins around a few times to break free, scratching the dog behind its ears before the owner whisks it away down the street. He looks up, slightly disoriented, but has come eye to eye with a building that sparks another part of his memory. The Empire State Building.

"That's where we're going," he says.

"Are you sure?"

He nods, "He goes up there to take pictures", and instead of correcting him on his use of the present tense, Sam lovingly shakes his head and leads the way. He's lucky to have a friend like Sam, who puts up with his weird quirks and crazy ideas. There was a time they entertained the notion of living here together, Sam had modeling aspirations which he ended up achieving in San Francisco, but the thought of living with his best friend hadn't been an altogether unpleasant one. Until Eli had come into his life and Sam decided New York wasn't his thing. It all worked out in the end, but sometimes he daydreams of what it could've been like, living with his best friend instead of a boyfriend, meeting Sebastian in his freshman year, starting something crazy.

Sam hides it well, but he's super giddy about going up to the main deck and getting that spectacular view of the city everyone should experience at least once in their lives. They pay for express tickets to skip all the lines, and get in the elevator with a handful of other people.

"Blimey, 50 dollars just to visit a building," a man behind them says, his British accent revealing more marvel than frustration.

"This is a special occasion," another man answers. "After all, how many times in your life is your son gonna get married?"

He stares down at his engagement ring, but Sam elbows him in the side, shaking his head. Sam's right, he should focus on what he came here to do, which was to find Sebastian, not feel bad about leaving his fiancé behind without much of an explanation–there was plenty of time for guilt later.

"Why didn't Adam join us today?" a woman asks, before the first man answers, "He's not too fond of heights."

They reach the deck a few moments later and a tiny incredibly crazy part of him expects to see Sebastian there, standing in a corner with a camera raised in front of his eyes, taking pictures of the gorgeous panorama stretching all around them. How could he possibly ever find Sebastian? He knew his favorite movie and his favorite book, what language he preferred and that he played lacrosse in high school, but he never learned what he studied in college, if photography was a hobby or simply something he did from time to time. He knew _nothing_.

He turns to Sam, the urgency of the next two days hitting him hard and painful. "Tell me I'm not crazy for doing this."

Sam puts his hands on his shoulders. "I'm your friend, and I support you. But this is completely crazy."

He casts down his eyes. None of this is rational, he's running on gut instinct and the faint memory of a feeling he glimpsed seven years ago. Maybe he should quit while he's ahead.

A smile flashes across Sam's lips. "But let's do it anyway."

.

By the time they settle down on Kurt Hummel's comfy couch another hour has passed, and Sebastian can almost hear the seconds pass by, one by one, inching him closer to the most inevitable decision of his life. His mouth has gone dry and fatigue has set in his bones, but he asks his questions all the same. There's no turning back now, he's here with a purpose and he's going to play this out.

"Seven years ago, did you happen to live with a guy named Blaine?" Santana asks, followed by his own brief description, "Black hair, brown eyes, thing for bowties."

"Yes, he lived with me," Kurt answers, an almost singsong quality to his voice.

"Do you happen to know where he is now?"

"No idea." Kurt shrugs. "We lost touch."

"What about his last name?" Santana asks.

Kurt eyes go wide. "I have no idea."

"You don't remember your ex's last name?" he asks. And he thought he was bad, he slept with guys without even bothering to learn their first names, but after years and years of living with Blaine's first name only he'd grown a lot more respectful towards the connections he made.

"Oh, no." Kurt laughs. "He wasn't my boyfriend. I put my apartment up for a roommate finders service? He and his boyfriend lived with me for a while. Three months maybe, until they found a place of their own."

"Roommate finders service?"

"I figured it was a great way to meet new people."

"Or get mugged," Santana mutters under her breath.

"You don't happen to have any contact information?" he asks. "Maybe a bill or a receipt? Anything could help."

It can't end here, not now, not yet, he's not ready to let Blaine go, let it all revert back to fantasy. If he doesn't find Blaine there's no real decision to be made, but could he marry Adam not knowing? Could he commit to one guy for the rest of his life while hung up on another? Adam deserves better than that.

"No, I'm sorry." Kurt shakes his head, eyes shining sympathetically. "They kept to themselves."

"Where was the service located?" Santana asks.

Kurt's eyes go out of focus for a few moments. "Right next to that cute little patisserie with the strange name. Seren–"

He swallows hard, a fresh wave of nostalgia flitting through his fingertips, Blaine sitting opposite him at a small table in a cute little_ patisserie_ downtown, hiding a smile behind his drink, his head tilting sideways, hazel eyes alive with the shine of Christmas lights. "_Serendipity_," he breathes, heart sputtering around the word.

Santana looks at him. "You know where that is?"

He nods. "I know exactly where that is."

How fortunately accidental.

.

At the end of the day he treats Sam to some birthday cake at Serendipity. It seems like a fitting end to an entire Saturday of running around and having his hope squashed at every turn. He needed something far more concrete, like that five-dollar bill he sent out into the world, but that could be anywhere by now, it could be in another state, another country, or forgotten underneath someone's couch.

"This place is so you," Sam says, while Blaine hands some money over to their waiter.

"I'm a horrible friend." He buries a hand in his hair. "I'm sorry for putting you through all this."

"Dude, come on, I've known you for years," Sam says. "I know you believe everything's connected in some kind of master plan designed to lead us to our universal soulmate."

Sam describes a boy who disappeared years ago. He got a tiny taste of him that night with Sebastian, and there were moments where he resurfaced to remind him that once upon a time he was a naive schoolboy who believed in fairytales, but he hasn't been that kid since high school.

"But if that's true what's the point of living?" Sam asks. "People are meant to make mistakes. It's how we grow."

He's not sure he's ready to hear it, but at least Sam's not calling his beliefs childish or immature. They're unrealistic, maybe, not rooted in anything real or anything he's come close to experiencing outside of that one night. Life isn't some elaborate stage play with directions for the actors, it's what it always has been, a mess, chaos personified, a garbage truck rushing buy to pluck a piece of paper away from eager fingertips.

"Is this trip going to make me grow?" he pouts, stealing a bite from Sam's cake. He doesn't want to grow if it's going to feel like this, an emptiness starting inside his chest that he may never be able to fill up.

"Are you going to spend the rest of your life checking every five-dollar bill you find?"

Right on cue the waiter comes back with their change, two five-dollar bills on the tray he places in between him and Sam.

"I don't know." He rubs his eyes, lack of sleep catching up with him. "I feel at home here. I gave that up to be with Hunter. I gave up a lot of things to be this person that–I'm not sure I like anymore."

"It's not too late to change," Sam says. "That's part of growing up too."

He sighs. "I have to give it all up now, don't I?"

"Don't you think it's time?"

He nods. It was a long shot from the start, he had nothing to go on but a first name and without that dollar bill he'd never get much further–this trip was about him, he had to see what he'd left behind, what he sacrificed in order to envision a future that seemed at all possible, and that future didn't include a lickety split wedding that would cause him more stress than bring him joy. He couldn't marry Hunter, not like that.

"Now come on," Sam jumps up. "We still have an entire day of New York ahead of us and you need sleep."

He grabs one of the five-dollar bills from the tray and folds it into his wallet, leaving the other behind as a tip. It's only when Sam turns his back that he dares a peek at the remaining money note, smiling to himself when it turns out to be devoid of handwriting–so he won't let go overnight, but he can start trying.

.

A cab pulls away from the curb as they arrive at Serendipity, walking straight past the coffee shop to find what they hoped was a roommate finders service. But after seven years Sebastian was hardly expecting it to still be there; the building has been converted to a bridal shop.

Signs don't get more obvious than this.

"Wait here," Santana says, and heads inside the store.

He checks his watch for the time, still an hour and a half to go before Adam expects him back at the hotel, but it's all becoming clear. He's right back where he started, in front of a bridal shop, and even though Adam won't be wearing a white wedding gown, this has to be a sign. All day he's been chasing some fantasy, scraping for clues wherever he could, they _bribed_ a temp at the leasing office, and for what? Just so he could end up in front of a shop with the catch phrase 'bless the bride' next to the doorbell, right next to the very place he started believing in the notion of destiny.

Life itself was forcing him to face his dilemma. Blaine, or Adam. The fantasy, or the reality. Fate, or something of his own making.

"They moved downtown." Santana storms out of the store, waving a cab over. "If we move fast we might still make it before they close."

"I can't do it."

"What?"

"It's over." He sits down on a bench lined along the curb, the metal cold through his pants. "I'm done." This has gone on long enough and he's not entirely convinced it wasn't cold feet, some latent panic left behind from his bachelor years awakened when he found that Bloomingdale's shopping bag unearthed from his closet. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I know this is the part where I make a bitchy comment," Santana says, "but there's a reason you did this." She sits down next to him, and puts a hand on his knee. "Maybe it's time you admit that to yourself."

"_Fuck_," he breathes, hit by that overwhelming giddy feeling he'd felt that night on the ice, dancing circles around the strangest boy he'd ever met, giggling like a loon, literally falling over himself. That was new and exciting, and little else had lived up to that since. "He made me smile. He was an idiot and made me into an idiot. And I didn't care."

"I really need to meet this guy."

"You won't." He shakes his head. "I love Adam, and he loves me. And that's that."

Santana eyes him, but there's nothing accusing about it for once. "You spent two days looking for a guy I'm pretty sure you're in love with."

"No, I'm losing my mind," he rushes out. Up until now it was about finding Blaine, not confessing his love or even admitting that to himself–he won't, there's no use, he's not going down this path. "I'm in love with a fantasy. Adam's real. And he's right here."

"What would you do if Blaine showed up right here, right now?"

He groans, scratching the back of his neck. "I'd–"

He'd call Blaine an idiot and kiss him, he'd let all the history between them dissipate, he'd let go of the past and look only to their future, together, because he'd never let Blaine out of his sight again. But it can't be like that, Blaine's not here, Blaine's not real, he's a boy he put on a pedestal long ago and it's time he learned boys like that aren't real. Blaine's a figment of his imagination.

"No." He stands up. "You're not gonna do this. You're not gonna encourage me."

He holds out a hand and helps Santana up. "It's over."

.

One of the last things Blaine expected while they were in New York was Sam running into someone from his own past. They're waiting to take the elevator upstairs to their room when another elevator opens, and Sam recognizes the blond, accompanied by the British couple they rode the elevator with at the Empire State Building. What a coincidence.

Sam introduces his friend as Adam Crawford, apparently the two of them met at a modeling agency years ago and struck up a short-lived friendship. They lost touch when Adam decided a career in modeling wasn't his calling.

Adam seems eager to talk to Sam, about his impending wedding and the wedding rehearsal in half an hour, so he excuses himself–he should probably give Hunter a call to let him know he's okay, and he could use a few hours of sleep to recharge.

But as he digs through his wallet for his keycard on the way to his room, something from the corner of his eye catches his attention. "Hunter?" he asks once he brings the figure sitting outside his door into focus, his heart beating out of sync. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

Hunter smiles. "Intuition."

"That's funny."

"You asked Trent to check me into the Waldorf for my New York dates," Hunter answers. He walks over and settles down on the floor next to his fiancé, Hunter reaching for his hands immediately. "Baby, I'm sorry," he says. "I don't blame you for running away."

He averts his eyes, the shame of it all hitting him square in the chest–he should've been honest, it would've felt better than the pathetic excuse he used to bring Sam here, or the thinly veiled lie he told Hunter to let him go. It's time to be honest now, Hunter took the time to come down here and see him, to chase him across the country because he felt sorry for the way he'd treated him. He has the tendency to underestimate Hunter, he should've learned better by now.

"I've been so focused on the tour and the commercials," Hunter says. "I should leave that all to Trent and help you out with the wedding."

"Yeah, about that–"

"I talked to my parents," Hunter interrupts. "They're really excited. They're flying in this week to help out."

He swallows hard, the thought of Hunter's mother asserting her own opinions on the wedding not the least bit appealing. As much as Hunter opposes the institution of marriage, his mother hoped that one day she could plan the wedding of _her dreams_ for them; he vowed that wouldn't happen.

"You don't think we're rushing things?" he asks, hoping to ease Hunter into this rather than drop a bomb. "We still have a million and one things to do before–"

"We'll get to them," Hunter interjects. "The most important thing is you'll get what you've always wanted."

He knows Hunter means marrying him, but what he hears is that he wants a husband, someone to share the rest of his life with without putting much thought into the who or how, but those are lies he told himself to be happy. Yes, he wants to marry someone one day, but he doesn't want to sacrifice everything he's ever believed in to achieve that goal–he doesn't want to settle for anything less if he can have the fairytale. And he really thinks it's still out there for him. Maybe even with Hunter. No matter what he cares about Hunter, and this will prove to be an obstacle they have to conquer. They could make something out of this yet, they just had to try, and trust each other.

"Come on." Hunter stands up, holding out a hand for him. "I'm taking you somewhere."

He lets Hunter pull him up into a hug, which he needed more than he realized–he'll talk to Hunter in a little while, tell him that maybe they should postpone the wedding until after the tour, until after the school year has finished so he'll have the time and the focus to organize the whole thing. With more time he could get used to the idea of marrying Hunter, maybe start a family with him in a few years. But less than two weeks wasn't enough time.

.

Sebastian and Santana arrive at the wedding rehearsal with five minutes to spare, but Adam keeps talking about an old friend he met half an hour ago, so he doesn't notice he threw his outfit together haphazard and he barely tied his shoelaces.

The wedding planner talks them through the schedule for tomorrow, from the pictures at 9am to the ceremony, which will start around noon; she and her team have been nothing but courteous, meaning they've mostly left him alone and trusted Adam to make the decisions. He approved all the arrangements, from the flowers to the music the band would be playing, but Adam got a kick out of planning everything, so he'd taken a step back.

Next the reverend runs through some of the texts while he and Adam stand holding hands in the same spot they'll fill tomorrow.

"_I, Sebastian, take you, Adam, as my husband, and I promise_–" the reverend's voice drowns out pretty fast as he focuses on all the faces in the room. His parents are smiling at him, as are Adam's, faces filled with love and expectation. Would they be disappointed if this wedding didn't go through? Would they blame him, or would they accept that he couldn't risk his happiness, his pride, on this one defining moment? He couldn't bear to break Adam's heart, he's been good to him, they have a great relationship and they're equals, they love and respect each other.

But what about his own heart?

Adam smiles at him and gives his hands a squeeze. He loves Adam, he's a good guy, maybe even the right guy. He shouldn't do anything to mess that up. It was cold feet, he decides, plain and simple, Santana was right, _his penis was panicking_, but he's been in a loving monogamous relationship for four years. He'd never find Blaine, like he never found that book. It's time to stop dreaming.

"And that's when the actual ceremony will conclude," the reverend finishes, shaking him from his thoughts.

Santana runs over quickly, her heels clicking fast on the tiled floor, probably tuned into his distraction. "Come on, pretty boy," she says. "We have half a dozen strippers waiting for us."

"Don't you mean exotic dancers?" Adam asks, playing with his fingers.

"No, I mean strippers," Santana corrects. "That I won't enjoy at all, by the way."

Adam laughs and pulls him closer. "Could I have a word with my fiancé first?" he asks, a hint of uncertainty in his tone–he should've prepared for this, Adam must have noticed something was off about his behavior.

Santana nods and follows their parents out, leaving them alone in the ballroom.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"It's you," Adam answers. "You've been somewhere else these past few days, and don't lie to me."

He stares down at their hands, still locked together. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?" Adam asks. "Please, talk to me."

"It's nothing." He shrugs. "Just Sebastian Smythe being an ass and getting cold feet."

"Well, I'm sorry," Adam says, reaching his arms around his neck, "but I'd like my fiancé's feet to be warm and snug, especially since we're getting married tomorrow. Whatever it is you're holding onto, please just, let it go?"

Adam pulls him into a hug, and he closes his eyes, arms tight around a boy he does love completely. He only ever told Santana about Blaine, she's the only person in his life he ever confided in. He couldn't tell Adam because he'd be jealous, he would've held onto that forever, they would've fought about it in every bookstore they visited, every time his eyes caught on hazel ones or a red bowtie–Blaine was his burden to bear, his dream to lock away, his to let go.

And it was time.

"Please?" Adam asks.

"I think I already have," he whispers, pulling back, and kisses Adam's forehead. "I'm here. I promise."

Adam nods. "I have your groom's gift here," he says, picking up a small package that had been laying on a chair throughout rehearsals.

He cringes. "I forgot to bring yours."

"I know. But I love it," Adam smiles, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the new watch he'd bought Adam a few weeks ago, and he thought he did a much better job of hiding. "Now open yours."

He loosens the tape at the top and the bottom of his present, peeling open the wrapping once he gets it undone, rather curious to find out what Adam got him. It feels like a book, but Adam's only ever seen him read books on architecture, and he can't think of any he doesn't own already. The wrapping reveals a small paperback book, one he recognizes instantly because he's seen hundreds of them before, he's seen hardbacks and paperbacks, he's seen second-hand copies with dog-eared pages, missing covers, handwriting between the lines, but never, not once, had he found the copy meant for him and him alone.

Until now.

In his hands, he holds a copy of _Love In The Time of Cholera_.

"Every time we go into a bookstore you flip through it," Adam says, "and you don't even own a copy."

His breathing deepens, his heart dancing circles in his chest, his skin goes itchy all over and his fingertips tingle–he thought he understood the world once, that it could be made sense of if he lived life with his eyes and ears open, but nothing about this makes sense.

He opens the book to the title page, a name, a last name, and a phone number written down in black pen, the same black pen that had turned his freckles into a constellation.

_Blaine Anderson._

"What's wrong? Don't you like it?"

He looks up at Adam, the corners of his eyes stinging with tears. This wasn't a clue in a long line of dead ends, it wasn't one in a line of disappointments he'd chased all day–this was a sign, a big blinking neon sign that screamed at him, that raged and pointed, that directed him in one single direction and answered his dilemma. And his answer was Blaine.

"It's perfect," he whispers, hugging Adam again.

"You should go." Adam rubs his back. "Santana will be waiting."

They head for the front entrance, hands locked, even though his hands are sweating, his heart racing at the thought of taking the next step. He kisses Adam like it's the first and the last time, like the world will end tomorrow and he may never get another chance to–in reality he might never have another reason to.

Adam smiles against his lips. "See you tomorrow."

"Don't party too hard." He pushes another kiss to Adam's mouth and watches him get into a cab, his smile faltering the moment he disappears out of sight.

He opens the book to recheck the title page, making sure it's real, Blaine's name and phone number are right there, he didn't make it up, it wasn't some figment of his imagination. He'll never understand, he'll never fully grasp the magnitude of this one simple sign, but he has faith now. He believes in destiny.

He sits down next to Santana in the cab, a tear running down his cheek.

"What's wrong?" Santana asks, her concern almost tangible, but she needn't be, his path lies outlined with lights like an airport runway, steering him in one direction and one direction only.

"His name is Blaine Anderson." He hands over the book, Santana leafing through it until she finds the title page, Blaine's name and phone number scribbled on top of the page. "Adam gave it to me as a wedding gift."

"You're shitting me," Santana breathes, blinking down at the page. "You are shitting me!" she shouts, startling the cab driver. She grabs her phone and calls her friend at the New York Times, eyes skipping over to him every few seconds.

He sits squirming in his seat, not quite sure what to do with himself, rubbing his sweaty palms down his legs over and over again.

.

"So is this romantic or what?" Hunter asks, an arm draped around his neck, holding him close even though it's not that cold out. As far as romantic gestures go, a carriage ride through Central Park was probably one of the most romantic outings they've ever had.

"It kinda takes away from the experience if you have to point that out." He laughs, snuggling closer to his fiancé. "But yeah, it's pretty romantic."

Hunter leans in and captures his lips with his own, and for a split second he thinks it can work, he and Hunter, they simply need to start communicating better, talk about their feelings and their problems. He's almost convinced until Hunter's phone starts ringing and Hunter pulls back, reaching for his phone without a moment's thought, and answering it. "Trent?"

Anger bristles in his chest. _Trent_. Of course.

"Trent, I can't hear you," Hunter calls loudly before standing up in the carriage and addressing the driver. "Sir, can you pull this thing over?"

"_Hunter_," he scolds, cheeks burning.

"Just one second," Hunter points at him and steps out of the carriage, leaving him alone with the driver in the middle of the street. Hunter can never follow through, every date or night to themselves gets interrupted one way or the other and he can't take much more of this–Hunter called Trent after the proposal instead of celebrating with him, he's at Trent beck and call right now while he knows they need to work on their relationship or it will fall apart.

He gets out of the carriage and looks around, darkness set in all around them to make the lit parts of the park stand out, and through the trees he can make out a well lit area, where teenagers are rollerblading in circles in a place all too familiar to him. His mother taught him how to skate, she loved watching professional figure skating on television and taught him all the terms when he was a little boy, taking him indoor skating when she could. Cooper often joked he could skate before he learned to walk.

He walks down to the ice-rink, Hunter would find him once he was done talking to Trent, and sits down on one of the benches, not unlike the one he and Sebastian had occupied. Sitting there, watching parents teach their young children how to rollerblade, he longs for another endless night, a night without an end, a night where everything felt possible. He longs for another night with Sebastian.

He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the bench, losing himself in memory.

Hunter sits down next to him five minutes later, planting a kiss behind his ear he barely responds to. He's tired of coming in second. He loves Hunter and admires how hard he works, but at the end of the day he's some guy Hunter comes home to, someone Hunter expects to be there for support and encouragement and those are all the things a relationship should offer, but it should work both ways. Instead he got a fiancé who planned a tour that included finals week and expected him to drop everything to marry him.

"Blaine, I'm sorry," Hunter says, but it's one apology too many, one apology in a long line of half-hearted ones. And he's had his fill.

He's still too young to be jaded, he's too young to settle for anything less than he deserves–a big romance in New York, even if it doesn't last, even if it all falls apart and his heart breaks into a million pieces. But that has to be possible, he has to believe that.

He's never felt more at home right here, but he's never felt lonelier in Hunter's presence.

"Look at those stars," Hunter says when his apology goes unanswered, trying to steer the conversation in a new direction. "My mom taught me all their names when I was a kid. I can't even remember."

He blinks up at the sky, and can't believe his eyes–_Cassiopeia_, burning bright thousands of light years removed. It'll always be there, it's always been there, and will still be there long after he's gone, and the thought of it brings tears to his eyes. He never looked up the story again, but most Greek myths were built around one fatal mistake, _hamartia_, _hybris_. A missing last name.

"That's Cassiopeia," he whispers, seeing it drawn out on flawless skin as if it happened yesterday, right here by the side of this ice-rink, connecting freckle after freckle, a soft smile, bright green eyes. A perfect night.

"You're not coming home with me, are you?" Hunter asks.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, preparing for the toughest conversation of his life.

.

Sebastian pays an insane amount of money for last minute tickets to San Francisco, all too aware that if his return flight takes off ten minutes late he'll miss his own wedding. Even if he finds Blaine he wants to look Adam in the eye should he call the whole thing off. More than ever he understands Blaine's conflict all those years ago–what if Blaine had loved his boyfriend the way he loves Adam? They were so young, and he was asking Blaine for so much, even if he hadn't understood how much at the time. But how does he let go of something solid and steady to fall headfirst into a relationship he's not sure could even be one?

He's getting ahead of himself, he hasn't found Blaine yet, there might still be things standing in their way.

"You are such a dick," Santana shakes him from his thoughts, sitting next to him on the plane. "You are." She nods. "You're a dick. I mean–" She shakes her head, and tears fill her eyes, making the pit in his stomach grow–he's been dragging Santana all over the city with him like a ragdoll, and despite her support he knows he could've been a better friend.

"Santana, what's wrong?" he asks, because he's only ever seen her cry a handful of times. They're not that much different, they don't wear their hearts on their sleeves unless it's with someone they truly trust, and even then they'd be hard pressed to show much emotion at all.

"Britt moved out," she answers, wiping at a stray tear. "We've been fighting for a really long time."

He swallows hard. He can't believe he didn't know, he can't believe he didn't notice anything was wrong; a few days ago Santana and Brittany were still all over each other. Had that all been for show?

"What happened?"

"We let it slip away," Santana says, voice weak and broken. "That's the point, that's what happens, sometimes it just–dies." She grabs the book on the tray table and tosses it in his lap. "Because we didn't have enough of this romantic bullshit. But you, you're–" She cries. "This doesn't happen, you realize that, right? You and Blaine–The world doesn't work like this."

Santana's right, he's been living in a fairytale, a romantic comedy that has yet to conclude in a happy ending. He's been telling himself it isn't real for a long time.

"Come here," he whispers, and pulls Santana close, letting her cry into his shoulder for as long as she needs to.

Two hours into the flight he falls asleep, lulled into dreams of candy canes lined along a snowy path, at the end of which stood a dark figure, while the red bowtie around its neck burned bright–he takes a step towards it, but never comes closer, not even once he starts running. The figure stands there, watching him, still, and he can never reach him.

They rent a car right outside the airport and start the final leg of their quest, his hands gripping tight around the steering wheel. Any moment now he could be staring into Blaine's eyes and he's at a loss for words. What would he even say? _Long time no see_? _Hello, Blaine Anderson_? What do you say to someone you've wanted to talk to for over seven years, all because of one crazy night in the snow where the universe was working entirely in their favor?

Half an hour later they pull up to a house in the bay, a two-story Dutch colonial, pristinely renovated by the looks of it–he could picture Blaine in a house like this, slaving over dinner in the kitchen, working in the garden.

He gets out of the car, Santana following close behind, and walks steadfastly towards the door before his nerves get the better of him. Seven years, seven long years of wondering, waiting, searching, moving on but being reminded of Blaine time and time again, they've all led him here. He can't back out now.

The doorbell resounds all throughout the house, and lights flick on behind the door moments after. His heart starts a rhythmless beat. What does he say? What does he do? He can hardly imagine Blaine living here on his own, what if he has a boyfriend? A husband? _Children_?

What if Blaine doesn't remember him?

The door opens, revealing a stunning half-naked man, hair as black as Blaine's, but bright blue eyes squinting at him through the dim lighting. And he can't say anything, he doesn't know what to say. Is this Blaine's boyfriend? A friend? Family?

A woman's voice calls from somewhere inside the house, "Cooper Anderson, get your butt back in here!"

Blaine's brother?

"Can I help you?" Cooper Anderson asks.

He clears his throat, "We're looking for–" he starts, when his eyes catch on a picture displayed on the table next to the door. He'd recognize the big hazel eyes that greet him anywhere, they've been haunting him every day, every night, and here they are with a startling message yet again. Because Blaine isn't the only person in the picture, there's a man kissing his cheek, and once he starts searching for more pictures deeper inside the house, he only sees a happy couple in a committed relationship, living in this gorgeous house.

"Who are you looking for?"

"I'm sorry." He casts down his eyes, acceptance washing over him. "We have the wrong house."

Santana slaps his arm. "What?"

"We have the wrong house," he reiterates, backing up a few steps. "I'm sorry."

He turns around and gets back in the car, sitting comfortably for the first time in days. A calm washes over him he's been chasing for a long time. He has a name now, an address, a phone number. It was all real, not a dream, not a fantasy. And that's enough for now.

Santana sits down next to him and slams the car door shut behind her. "What the hell was that?"

He shakes his head, silencing Santana. "He's happy, Santana. It's not my place to come between that."

No, because he tried that once and it didn't take, so how could it possibly work now? If he and Blaine are meant to be, which he's starting to believe they are, they'll find each other in the end. He can call him later, maybe friend him on Facebook so they can get to know each other better first, and then they can see where it leads. But he won't insist the way he did years ago. He's not that boy anymore.

.

Sam dedicates their entire Sunday to tourist stops all over the city, never standing still long enough for his thoughts to even catch on anything else but taking in the sights. He loves Sam for this, for his friendship and unflinching loyalty, for his unabashed enthusiasm and for knowing him so well. But the more Blaine sees of the city, the more memories come back, and the more he starts considering moving back here. He'll have to finish the school year in San Francisco, but he can find a teaching job here, pick up his old life where he left off, but with a new vigor, with a renewed faith in his dreams, with beliefs he should never have started calling childish.

His trip might not have worked out the way he'd hoped, but Sam was right, it wasn't too late to change, he could still live his life closer to what he wanted, he could reach higher than he'd previously thought he could. He shouldn't be afraid to dream bigger.

Around noon they take a cab to his favorite restaurant to treat Sam to one of his best New York experiences. He takes out some money for the cab fare a few blocks before they hit the restaurant, rolling the five-dollar bill between his fingers while houses roll past behind the window. Sebastian could be in one of them, he could be staring out a window searching for him too, and neither of them would ever know how close they came. It's a pipedream, to think that Sebastian's looking just as hard, but it's one he keeps hanging onto in the hopes of one day finding himself in the same place as Sebastian again.

The cab pulls up to the curb, and he hands over the money automatically, eyes skipping haphazard over the writing on the back of the bill. His breath catches, his heart skips a beat and he nearly rips the five dollars in half when he pulls it back.

But sure as day, there it is, neat handwriting in black pen that drew out a constellation between freckles once, a name, a last name, and a phone number.

_Sebastian Smythe_.

Tears spring to his eyes. "Sam."

"What?" Sam blinks, taking a closer look. "Oh my God." Sam digs for his phone and dials directory assistance, while he explains to the cab driver they won't be getting out here. "Yes, hi, I need an address for a Sebastian Smythe in New York. S-m-y-t-h-e."

Sam bounces up and down in his seat and he'd join him if he wasn't in the process of having a heart attack. Could it be? Could this be it? Has he finally caught a break, or had the universe decided he would only be ready once he stopped holding on so tight? Either way he's never been this excited and frightened about anything in his entire life.

"Thirty-four, Charles Street," Sam says.

"Thirty-four, Charles Street," he repeats to the cab driver, even though he heard it clear the first time.

"Dude," Sam says.

He beams. "I know," he says, while fear paralyzes him. Sebastian could have a boyfriend, he could be married, hell, he could have kids for all he knows. Could he stand in front of him and introduce himself and expect the past to disappear? Would Sebastian even remember him? What if that night had only meant something to him?

It takes them all of ten minutes to reach their destination, a large apartment complex with several large lofts. He jumps out of the cab and runs right up to the front door, his feet moving of their own volition. Next to the door the third bell from the top reads 'Smythe-Crawford' and he presses it without thinking.

"He's not home," a voice sounds behind him.

He turns around, staring straight into the deep brown eyes of a girl his height, the same color hair, wearing a white-dotted black dress.

"Excuse me?"

"He left this morning," she says. "You'll be late."

He frowns, belatedly realizing he heard the name Crawford mentioned yesterday. "Late for what?"

"The wedding," the girl answers. "At the Waldorf?"

"He's getting married?" he asks, but it's a stranger's voice, coming from somewhere far away. Crawford, a wedding, the Waldorf–could there be more than one wedding at the hotel today? Or did he meet Sebastian's fiancé yesterday in the lobby? A fiancé his best friend had known years ago, a fiancé's whose parents they first met at Empire State Building?

_Oh God_.

He rushes back towards the cab and nearly gets himself stuck in the door. "We need to get to the Waldorf as fast as possible."

Sam eyes him in question, but he shakes his head, his throat closed up around the most specific panic he's ever experienced–this can't be how it ends. Sebastian has been right in the periphery all along, that has to mean something, it can't all have been for nothing.

They get stuck in traffic a few blocks from the Waldorf. "Can you see what it is?" he asks, but the cabbie shakes his head, and there doesn't seem to be any movement in the traffic whatsoever.

"Dude, you gotta go," Sam says, shaking his arm. "Go!" he shouts. "I got this!"

He climbs out of the car, almost tripping over backwards when his foot gets caught between the door, but next thing he's running down the street, ducking around wing mirrors before he hits the sidewalk, trying to avoid running into anyone. He's never ran so hard, so fast, he's never had more reason to get anywhere on time.

Five minutes later he's completely out of breath, but he storms up the steps to the Waldorf's lobby, hitting a placard mounted on a easel that confirms his worst nightmares: 'The Adam Crawford and Sebastian Smythe wedding. Crystal Ballroom.'

"Please, God no," he breathes, breaking out into another sprint towards the ballroom. His calves burn from exertion, but he keeps running, and he's none too embarrassed yelling, "STOP!" the moment he pushes through the doors, his voice reverberating hollow off the walls.

"Stop?" a man inside the room asks, a janitor by the looks of it. One side of the room still stands lined with neat lines of ten chairs each, while the other's being stacked together in a corner of the room, flower arrangements at regular intervals all around the room. But he and the janitor are the only two people in the room.

"Is it over?" he asks, breathing hard. "The wedding?"

"Oh yeah," the janitor answers. "It's over, alright."

His heart sinks to his stomach. It was all for nothing, this entire trip, the past seven years, he's lived them hoping that somehow the universe would bring him and Sebastian back together, however ridiculous that sounded. But to have it end like this, so painfully close to his goal–what did it matter? Adam seemed like a great guy, even if he wasn't it's not his place to question Sebastian's heart.

"But don't worry, you'll get your present back," the janitor says.

He frowns, the man in front of him reduced to a blur he can barely make out through his tears. "What?"

"They always return the presents," the man says, but he's none the wiser as to what that means. Why would Sebastian and Adam return the presents, unless– "You asked if it was over. They called the whole thing off this morning."

He draws in a shuddery breath, tears running down his face. "He called it off?" he asks, without knowing what happened or who called it off in the first place. But he doesn't care, all he heard was that there's still a chance for him, still a chance for him and Sebastian–they had to have called it off for a reason. Is he foolish to think he was at least part of that reason? They could still meet, they could still fall in love, and it's no longer a race against the clock.

Sebastian's out there, somewhere, and he's going to find him.

.

Sebastian picks Santana up for lunch on Sunday, even though he's running on zero sleep and a broken heart–he doesn't touch his food and they spent their time in silence, Santana watching him like a hawk, while he feels like a shell of the man he was no more than a week ago.

Telling Adam the truth was the hardest thing he'd ever done. It wasn't like telling Santana, who had known him as the foolish boy who flitted from one meaningless relationship to the next–she had seen the change in him. He had become the change with Adam. He'd half expected Adam to hit him, to slap him across the face and scream at him. Instead all he got was the sight of Adam's tears, the pain in his eyes, his body pulling away from him for the first time ever.

It'd hit him harder than he thought it would, but in the end it was for the best. Adam deserved someone who could commit to him one hundred percent, be in the moment with him without his mind wandering to a what-if from his past.

He hasn't done anything with Blaine's contact information yet, he'll give it a few days and some more thought before undertaking anything.

"How are you feeling?" Santana asks, winding a scarf around her neck a few times as they make their way out of the cafe.

He sighs. "Like an asshole," he says, and pulls his jacket tighter around him–after eight years in New York he still hasn't learned to prepare for its fickle weather changes.

Santana hooks an arm in his. "What kind of pep talk do you want?"

"How about telling me I did the right thing?"

"You don't need me to tell you that."

It doesn't feel right, there's an emptiness curled up right alongside the crack in his heart that he deserves more than anything, but it sits heavyset in his chest.

"You're going to see Brittany?"

"If you can do this mushy lovey-dovey stuff, I figure so can I, right?" Santana shrugs. "It's not like I have anything to lose."

Santana digs around in her purse and pulls out a small piece of paper. "I spent a lot of time researching for your best man speech," she says. "I'm hilarious but I wanted to sound smart too. I came across this last night, it made me think of these past few days."

She hands over the paper and kisses him on the cheek. "You'll be okay, pretty boy."

He smiles. "Good luck."

His eyes follow Santana down the sidewalk until she disappears out of sight, and he decides on a walk through Central Park, to take some time to himself to think and figure things out–he reckons he'll be doing a lot of that in the time to come. He'll probably throw himself into his work, avoid Adam while he moves out of the loft, ignore calls from his mother, and spend a lot of time thinking about Blaine.

The temperature steadily drops as he goes, and he digs his hands in his pockets, finding one black cashmere glove stuffed in his jacket pocket. He leaves it where it is, hoping that one day it might find its missing half, and heads deeper inside the park.

He unfolds the piece of paper Santana handed him earlier, a tidy 'made me think of you' scribbled in a corner, the quote she mentioned directly below it: 'If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid.'

_Foolish and stupid_, he thinks, that sounds about right, and for the first time in seven years he's not afraid of it. He'll live his life being stupid, following the signs Blaine taught him to believe in. In fact, he's following one right now, his feet with a mind of their own, carrying him to a place he remembers from long ago.

.

Blaine hugs Sam goodbye outside of the hotel, the cab driver putting his luggage away in the trunk, which now included an extra bag of clothes and souvenirs. He's sad to see Sam go, but he needs to get back for work and he'll only be a phone call away. Sam hadn't said anything about his break-up with Hunter, probably because he realized it wasn't something he wanted to talk about just yet.

Hunter had taken it better than he expected, maybe deep down they both knew this day was coming and his proposal was a way of circumventing the inevitable. He'd told Hunter about the boy he'd met here seven years ago, how he'd felt and how it had all returned to him now that he was back in the city, how he missed New York more than anything. And Hunter had simply smiled, understanding him better than he ever gave him credit for.

"What are you gonna do?" Sam asks.

"I don't know." He shrugs, even though he's already turned over some things in his mind. He refuses to disappoint his students so close to graduation, so he'll head back to San Francisco some time this week, discuss some things with Hunter and maybe sell the house, because he's certain of one thing: he's moving back to New York. And not just for Sebastian. "The school gave me a few days off."

"They did?"

He smiles. "Okay, I lied and told them I had the flu."

"Take care, man. I hope you find what you're looking for." Sam hugs him one more time before getting into the cab, rolling down the window to impart some last minute wisdom. "And put on a jacket before you do catch the flu."

He waves Sam off and hugs his arms around his own shoulders, hurrying back inside the hotel before Sam gets proven right. In the hotel room he goes through his things, finding a solitary cashmere glove that makes him smile–maybe one day it'll be reunited with its missing half.

But he can't find his jacket.

.

There's a jacket draped over the bench where he sits down, a bench not unlike the one he and Blaine had found sanctuary after his foolish fall on the ice–his entire elbow and the skin surrounding it had turned black and blue in the days after, a painful reminder of their time together. Sebastian rifles through the jacket in case its owner left behind anything important he might want back, but all the pockets are empty.

Sitting back, he can finally breathe again. For the first time in days he's not being torn apart by two impossible choices, he's not chasing any dreams to postpone an inevitable decision. He's here, in the moment, content with his own company.

He walks to the center of the rink and sits down, unbothered by the few skaters left behind. It's dark and the stars have come out, burning bright above him, Cassiopeia among them. He checks his arm, the concentration of freckles a perfect blueprint of the sequence of stars.

He lies back, the jacket propped under his head, and stares up at the sky, laying out the black glove next to him.

A snowflake dwindles down.

.

Blaine hurries through the park faster once the snow starts, slowly trickling down before it grows thicker–he'd only brought one jacket, he didn't think it would snow this time of year, even though he knows New York weather to be more fickle than that.

His legs carry him as fast as he can walk, he's reluctant to start running for a jacket that could've been picked up by a stranger already. He could buy a new one tomorrow.

Darkness has set in by the time he reaches the rink, and it's abandoned but for a figure sprawled on the ground, staring up at the sky. He can't imagine it's very pleasant, it's cold out and windy and the snow showers down heavily. Why would anyone lie down when he could just as easily admire the snow from the comfort of his own home?

And then he sees it, a black glove laying on the ground next to the man's body.

_Sebastian_.

His breathing catches in his throat, eyes turning watery.

He kept it.

Sebastian had held onto the glove all this time.

.

The snow grows thicker and thicker, and if he stays here long enough he'll get soaked, he's already freezing, but he's oddly comfortable, enveloped in a memory he can still see happening, right here, but back then, he can see his younger self skating circles around Blaine, laughing, falling over, being utterly and completely stupid.

He jumps when something lands on his chest. It's not snow or trash carried in by the wind, it's–

He sits up.

It's a black cashmere glove. He reaches for the one he thought was on the ground next to him, and it's still there, so where the hell did this come from? Unless–

His breathing deepens, a cold sweat chilling him to the bone.

He turns to face around, a figure discernible through the snow.

One pair of cashmere gloves slip from between his fingers while he staggers upright.

_Blaine_.

.

There should be a band playing, or some soundtrack to mark this moment in time, but instead there's only silence, the wind wheezing in his ears, cars in the distance, Blaine's hesitant footsteps carrying him closer and closer to his final destination.

Tears blur his sight, but Sebastian keeps getting clearer, reality retouching whatever his imagination and the time passed hadn't been able to account for.

A tear runs down Sebastian's cheek, followed by a small smile, as if he's finally accepted that it's real, it's happening, they've been brought back together by this crazy chain of events neither could've predicted.

.

Sebastian takes a few steps closer and meets Blaine halfway, his hazel eyes shining with tears and he loses himself in them all over again. His imagination never lived up to this, none of his dreams, none of his fantasies, it's real now, and he believes, God, does he believe.

He takes a deep breath and holds out his hand, afraid a simple touch might make it all disappear. Only it doesn't, Blaine's fingers caress his skin and he doesn't wake up, Blaine doesn't dissipate, his skin warm against his own.

And there's only one thing he could possibly say.

.

"I'm Sebastian," the man in front of him says, and Blaine laughs, tears sounding through, his heart a symphonic orchestra. His cheeks burn, but he can't look away from Sebastian's green eyes, can't help but feel the warmth of his hand. He's changed so much, his clothing more expensive, hair a bit longer, contacts instead of glasses, but he'd recognize that boyish grin anywhere. It's been living in his dreams all this time.

.

"I'm Blaine," the boy turned man responds, and he tries to fit it all in, seven years of change, no more bowtie but a shirt buttoned all the way up under his chin, snow unknotting a few curls around his forehead, but that exact same killer smile that makes him weak in the knees.

"You're an idiot," Sebastian says.

Blaine nods. "I know."

They both smile and stare at each other as if there's a distance between them they've learned to live with, always there, untraversable by time or space or hope. Until Sebastian draws a tentative step closer and it's gone, time, space, and hope unfulfilled.

Sebastian raises a hand to Blaine's face, searching his eyes for any hesitation, but Blaine reaches a hand across the distance, fingers curling around one of the lapels of his jacket, silently begging him to come closer, bridge seven years, knit them together with sloppy hopes and dreams.

Snow rains down on them and melts into raindrops in their hair, the sensation lost in a torrent of new and exciting impressions–Sebastian runs a thumb over Blaine's jaw, making his lips part, and he can't help but stare at them, appreciate their fullness for the first time, savor the moment he's been waiting for.

_You don't have to understand, you just have to have faith._

Sebastian leans in and brushes his lips against Blaine's, a shiver tracing down his spine he feels course through Blaine's body as well. A breath hitches at the back of his throat, but he pushes through, past the fear that time has changed them too much, that they won't be able to recapture what stood right in front of them once up another time, because he knows it's possible. They found each other despite all the odds stacked against them, despite the cruelty of time and the unforgiving span of space. Here they are, face to face.

_Faith in what?_

Blaine melts forward against Sebastian's solid body, warm and inviting, and for the first time in too long he's hit with the overwhelming sensation of coming home. Sebastian tastes like home, he feels safe and dependable as if he's been right beside him all these years, waiting patiently for him to come to his senses.

His lips part and he winds both arms around Sebastian, locking together behind his back, while both of Sebastian's hands cup his face, his tongue strokes into his mouth and licks at his as if he's been starved this kind of kiss for years, reverent of every new sensation.

They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss.

The world spins, and spins, and spins, and they stand still, a constellation burning light years overhead.

_Destiny_.

.

_Then a spark from a star shooting too close_

_They both smiled, "What a day to explode"_

.

.

.

Sebastian wakes up with his face smushed into his pillow, opening one eye to the sight of his boyfriend sitting back against the headboard, a folder of papers open in his lap that he undoubtedly spent his morning grading. He grumbles and rubs at his eyes, body sluggish with too much sleep, but his head clearer than it's been in weeks.

"See?" Blaine raises an eyebrow at him, "You are capable of sleeping in."

The entire loft bathes in early noon light, tall windows reflecting what sunlight reaches them. He turns around in the bed, staring up at Blaine. "That would be far more impressive if I was the only workaholic in the room." He eyes Blaine in accusation, neatly closing the folder in Blaine's lap, but he doesn't receive any complaints. "At least my Christmas bonus will be paying for our ski trip."

Blaine deposits his things on the nightstand and slides back underneath the covers, still warm and cozy and far more inviting than his desk was. Sebastian pulls him closer, their bodies settling pliant against each other like they've learned to do, and finds Blaine's lips, coaxing them apart with his own, tongue teasing inside Blaine's mouth.

It's three days before Christmas and they both had the next two weeks off, so they would be spent entirely in each other's company, be it while visiting first Blaine's parents and then Sebastian's, or the week-long trip they planned to Montreal–they'd both been swamped with work long enough to need some time away, and some time to themselves.

"Marry me," Sebastian whispers against a corner of his mouth, before demanding another kiss.

"Hmm." He pushes Sebastian back, but keeps chasing his lips. "No."

Sebastian's fingers curl into Blaine's unkempt hair, "Why not?"

"We've been dating for ten months."

Sebastian pulls back and stares into Blaine's eyes. "We've known each other for almost ten years."

And the answer would be yes, if Sebastian unearthed that ring he's been hiding in the bottom drawer of his desk and went down on one knee in front of Blaine, if he listed all the reasons, if he enumerated how the universe has wanted this from the moment they met, Blaine would say yes, ten months or not.

But it's too soon, so Sebastian keeps the ring hidden, never mentions it, not even to Santana, who usually knows all his secrets. She'd tell him what he already knows, they might be ready, but it's too soon, too fast after two break-ups and the start of their own relationship, after two moves and Sebastian's promotion at work, after Blaine's new job. They're still settling into their dream, and don't need it to change yet.

"Answer's still no," Blaine says, because he knows it too, and captures Sebastian's lips. They tumble circles in the sheets without releasing each other's lips, hands roaming over each other's bodies, fingers digging into skin, their legs tangling together.

Blaine finished the school year in San Francisco, after Sebastian made sure he had all the contact information he could get his hands on, phone number, address, email–they communicated long distance for two months, with one or two surprise visits over a long weekend.

Their first month together in New York was magical–Sebastian took time off work when he could, or worked from home, and they got to know each other like they never had before. Blaine lived with him at the loft, so he didn't have to worry about rent or a new place while applying for jobs.

But Sebastian had already decided he wouldn't stay at the loft, it held too many memories of Adam, of years without Blaine. So when one warm summer night in bed he asked Blaine if getting their own place sounded crazy, and Blaine said "Yes," while barely recovering from his gigglefit, he started designing a new place for them in his imagination.

It was a leap of faith, but after reuniting after seven years because of one book in millions and a five-dollar bill that could've ended up on the other side of the world, they were willing to jump in blindly, headfirst and spinning. And they haven't looked back since.

Sebastian pulls back, much to Blaine's disappointment, and jumps out of the bed. "Come on," he says, eyes catching on the clock that already reads 11am.

"Where are you going?" Blaine huffs.

"_We_ are going to shower and eat," Sebastian answers, "and then we're going Christmas shopping."

Blaine's all too aware they've done all their Christmas shopping, they have presents for their parents and their friends, their Christmas cards are in the mail, and he bought Sebastian's present two weeks ago during his lunch hour. But Blaine remains silent, he has a vague suspicion as to where Sebastian's taking him.

They hop into the shower and stay there for close to an hour, unable to keep their hands off each other now that the prospect of time to themselves has them excited. They get dressed and have some lunch, and head out the door, wrapped in warm jackets and scarves, and Sebastian even wears the knitted hat his mom got him.

They both know where they're headed, so they don't spell it out, they walk down the street hand in hand, occasionally catching each other's eyes and smiling, the city alive and snowy white around them. Eight years ago they travelled this same path separately, walked into Bloomingdale's from opposite ends of the counter, but grabbed for the same pair of gloves. The pair of gloves that started all this.

Sebastian reaches for a new pair of black cashmere gloves and hands them over.

Blaine shakes his head, often overwhelmed all over again that they found each other. "When did you get to be so romantic?"

Sebastian grins, foolish and stupid but perfectly content with that. "Exactly eight years ago, killer," he says, and leans forward to push a kiss to Blaine's lips. "Happy anniversary."

Blaine beams. "Happy anniversary."

* * *

#

**HAPPY HOLIDAYS!**


End file.
